Page 11

Arden

T he office after hours is unnerving. It’s like sitting in a haunted house, and I’m not entirely convinced this place isn’t full of ghosts. But I’m grateful for the occasional clatter of a distant keyboard or the faint drone of the copier, letting me know I’m not alone, no matter how scattered.

My desk lamp casts a dim pool of light over the report in front of me, but I’m not really reading it.

I should be focused. Harris’s debrief replaying in my head should’ve been enough to keep me occupied. Instead, my mind circles back to the detail, to the device, to Grant.

His voice had been sharp, cutting through the adrenaline like a blade: “Move!” The heat of his hand on my arm as he pulled me back is still imprinted on my skin.

It shouldn’t bother me. He shouldn’t bother me. But everything about him sticks, his words burrowing under my skin in a way I can’t shake.

When I pull out my phone, I’m not surprised to find a text from Luna.

Luna: I’m starting to forget what your face looks like.

I roll my eyes and shoot back a text: Don’t be so dramatic.

Luna: I’m serious. You’re never home anymore. I miss you. Who’s supposed to beta read for me?

Me: I’m sure one of your very eager fans would be more than willing to fill in for me.

Luna: It’s not the same.

Me: Ask Tavia to do it.

Luna: Hardy har. Fuck you.

I chuckle as I respond : Well, that’s not nice. I’ll be home as soon as I’m done going over this report.

I lock my phone and throw it onto my desk before glancing toward the break room, hoping the promise of coffee will clear my head. My body coils with restless energy, and I know I won’t sleep if I go home like this.

The light flickers as I step inside, the usual scent of stale coffee clinging to the air. I fumble with the machine, my hands clumsy as I load a new pod. The adrenaline from earlier has worn off, leaving behind a sharp edge of frustration and something I don’t want to name.

“Williams.”

I freeze, and as if it’s a paid actor, the hair on the back of my neck stands. His voice is unmistakable. Low, calm, and entirely too close.

Grant.

I turn slowly, gripping the counter for balance. He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, his usual scowl firmly in place. The dim light casts shadows across his face, making him look sharper, harder, like he was carved from stone.

“Agent Grant,” I say evenly, forcing my voice to stay steady.

He steps inside, his movements measured, deliberate. “Late night?”

I shrug, leaning back against the counter. “Could say the same for you.”

“I had reports to finish,” he replies, his tone clipped. “What’s your excuse?”

I bristle, the defensive edge in his voice lighting a spark in my chest. “Not everything needs an excuse. Maybe I just felt like being here.”

His eyes narrow, and I can tell he’s not buying it. “You’re still thinking about the detail.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” I shoot back. “It wasn’t exactly a clean operation.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he admits, his voice softening just a fraction. “But dwelling on it won’t change anything.”

“It’s not dwelling,” I say. “It’s learning.”

He steps closer, the air between us growing heavier. “And what have you learned?”

I open my mouth to reply, but the words catch in my throat. His presence is overwhelming, the intensity in his gaze pinning me in place. It’s not the first time he’s looked at me like this, like he’s trying to dissect me and figure out what makes me tick, but it feels different now.

My body reacts before my mind can catch up. My pulse quickens, my chest tightening as if I’m standing too close to a fire. I hate it.

I hate the way my mouth goes dry and the way my skin prickles under his gaze.

“I’ve learned,” I say finally, forcing the words out, “that nothing I do will ever be enough for you.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think I’ve hit a nerve. But then his expression hardens again, and he takes another step closer, his voice low. “You still think this is about me? About what I think of you?”

I don’t answer, my breath catching as his proximity sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

“This is about you,” he continues, his tone soft but unrelenting. “About whether you can handle the pressure. Whether you can make the hard calls when it counts. Whether your team can depend on you .”

Ouch, that last part hurt.

“They can,” I say, my voice steady despite the defensiveness crawling up my spine.

“Then prove it,” he replies, his gaze locking onto mine.

There goes those words again.

The tension between us is suffocating, crackling like static electricity. For a split second, I wonder if he feels it too, the pull, the heat, the way every argument feels like a line we’re daring each other to cross.

But then he steps back, his expression shuttering as quickly as it cracked.

“Get some rest, Williams,” he says, his tone clipped. “You’ll need it.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me standing alone in the break room, my heart pounding and my thoughts spinning.

I tell myself it’s just adrenaline, leftover tension from the day. But deep down, I know better.

Grant isn’t just under my skin. He’s rooted there, taking up space I can’t afford to give him.

And I hate that part of me doesn’t want him to leave.

***

My steps echo in the hallway, the break room light faintly flickering in my peripheral vision. I hadn’t meant to stay this late, but leaving right after... him felt impossible. I needed time to get my head straight.

The drive home is slow, and the city is quiet, but the tension inside me is anything but. The familiar lights of the apartment building bring a rush of relief, but it’s muted, buried under everything else I’m carrying.

By the time I step inside, it’s after midnight. The soft glow of Luna’s laptop is the first thing I see, casting a bluish tint over her features as she sits curled up on the couch.

“You’re late again,” she says without looking up, her fingers typing something furiously.

“Long day,” I reply, kicking off my shoes and setting my bag down by the door. “I texted you this time, Mom.”

She glances at me over the rim of her glasses, her expression softening. “Everything okay?”

I nod, heading to the kitchen for water. It’s like no matter how much I drink, I can never truly feel hydrated. “Yeah. Just a lot of... everything.”

Her brows knit together as she sets her laptop aside, unfolding herself from her cocoon of blankets. “Arden.”

I pause halfway to my room and glance back at her.

“You can talk to me, you know.”

“I know,” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing. Really.”

She studies me for a moment, the corners of her mouth pulling down like she doesn’t quite believe me. But she doesn’t push.

“You missed Tavia,” she says instead, her tone lighter but still tinged with curiosity.

“Lucky me,” I mutter, earning a soft chuckle from her. “Did you have her beta read for you?”

Luna shoots me a look.

Tavia has been her on-again, off-again girlfriend for years. However, I can never really tell which one they are. For a few months, the two are head over heels for each other, and Tavia, much to my dismay, is here every waking minute. Then the next, they’re bickering about everything and nothing.

Luna rarely comes to me for advice about Tavia, but I know it’s because she probably feels guilty for asking, only to not take it and do the opposite.

Also, I’m pretty sure the fact that she knows Tavia hates my guts plays a part.

And no, I’m not being dramatic. She literally hates my guts, and I have no idea why. Every interaction with her feels like stepping on glass, and no matter how neutral I try to keep things, she seems to find a reason to glare or deliver an unnecessary snide comment.

If it wasn’t for Luna, I would have said something to her by now, but I love my best friend. And I love seeing her happy, so if that means having to bite my tongue and not stoop to Tavia’s level, then so be it.

“She was her usual chipper self,” Luna adds dryly before resuming her typing.

Which means she was a nightmare. I can’t say I’m not glad I missed it.

“Wanna talk about it?” I offer, and as I expect, she shakes her head, lips pursed.

“Okay, I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll call it a night.” I take a long sip of water before turning toward my room.

“I’m going to try to take another stab at these chapters.”

“Good luck,” I call over my shoulder.

“Night, Arden,” she replies, her voice soft.

When I close the door behind me, I let out a breath of air before setting my bag on my desk. Instead of getting ready for the shower like I should be, I find myself with my head in my hands, replaying the detail, the debrief, and... him.

Grant.

I should be furious with him. He’s infuriating, condescending, and impossible to please. But instead, my mind keeps circling back to the way his voice dropped when he said, “Prove it.” The way his eyes locked on mine like he was daring me to argue.

The memory sends an unexpected shiver down my spine, and I hate it. I hate that I’m thinking about him like this, about how close he’d been in the break room. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint traces of soap and something darker.

My cheeks heat at the thought, and I wish I could bury my face in my pillow. Stop it .

But it’s impossible to ignore the way my body reacted. The way my pulse spiked, the way my nipples tightened against my shirt. I pray he didn’t notice, but a small, traitorous part of me wonders if he did.

What would he have thought?Would he have glared and just thrown more insults? Or would his expression have shifted, that cold, unreadable mask cracking just enough to show... something else?

I groan, then peel off my clothes and head to start the shower. This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t be thinking about Holden Grant like this, not after the day we’ve had.

Not ever.

But as I close my eyes that night, the image of his sharp jawline and piercing gaze lingers, burning brighter than I want to admit.

***

The following morning, I’m back at headquarters, sitting stiffly in one of the chairs across from Agent Harris’s desk. The air feels heavier than usual, the tension from yesterday lingering like a storm cloud. Park sits next to me, his normal brooding quiet, while Tate leans casually against the wall, scrolling through his phone as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

And then there’s Grant.

He’s standing by the window, arms crossed, his profile sharp against the sunlight streaming in. He hasn’t looked at me since I walked in, which should be a relief, but somehow, it’s more unnerving.

Agent Harris clears his throat, flipping through a file on his desk. “Let’s get to it,” he says briskly. “Yesterday’s detail was a success overall, but the errors need to be addressed.”

My stomach knots.

“Park,” Harris says, looking up, “the oversight at the main entrance was noted in the report. You’ll need to step up your checks moving forward. We can’t afford lapses like that. Especially not today.”

“Yes, sir,” Park replies, his tone subdued but respectful.

Harris nods, then shifts his attention to Grant. “Agent Grant, you’ve been vocal about the team’s performance. Anything you’d like to add?”

Grant doesn’t move from his spot by the window. “We caught the device,” he says evenly, “but it was too close. Williams hesitated.”

What? The words land like a slap, and my jaw tightens.

“With respect, sir,” I cut in before Harris can respond, “I didn’t hesitate. The device wasn’t in my designated area. I acted as soon as it was identified.”

I remember what Grant said about saving my own ass. About acting like a member of the team. But this feels like more than that. It’s like he’s deliberately trying to place the blame solely on me, and I’m not going for that shit. Absolutely fucking not.

I spare a glance at Park but his face holds no emotion. If anything, he looks bored. Typical.

Grant finally turns to face me, his eyes narrowing. “And if no one had identified it? If the sweep hadn’t caught it in time?”

“That’s enough,” Harris firmly interjects. “The incident is logged, and corrective measures will be taken. Moving forward, I expect all of you to anticipate these situations, regardless of assigned areas.”

I force myself to nod, swallowing the retort burning on the tip of my tongue.

Harris continues, addressing the room. “Now, about today’s assignments. The First Lady event at the National Gallery. It’s a charity fundraiser, so there will be a lot of high-profile guests and media coverage. Williams, you’ll be on detail with Grant. Park, you’re paired with Tate for perimeter security.”

I blink, my heart dropping into my stomach.

“Sir,” Grant says, stepping forward, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Harris raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Grant’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he might actually say it—that he doesn’t think I’m capable, that he doesn’t trust me. But instead, he says, “Her focus needs to improve. Pairing her with someone else today might be better for training purposes.”

The words sting more than I expect, but I refuse to let it show.

Harris waves a hand dismissively. “You’re one of our best agents, Grant. If anyone can sharpen her skills, it’s you. End of discussion.”

Grant’s mouth presses into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue further. Instead, he shoots me a look. A mix of irritation and something darker that sends a shiver down my spine and straight to my core.

I hate that my pulse quickens under his gaze and that my skin feels too warm like I’m standing too close to a fire.

“Understood,” Grant says finally, his tone clipped.

Harris nods, his focus already shifting back to the files in front of him. “Dismissed. Be ready to move out in an hour.”

The others file out first, but I linger for a moment, gathering my notes. Grant doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on me as if daring me to say something.

I don’t. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

As I pass him on my way out, the heat of his presence brushes against me, and I hate the way it makes my chest tighten.

I tell myself it’s just adrenaline, leftover tension from yesterday. But as I step into the hallway, my thoughts betray me. None of this feels like just criticism. It feels personal.

And at this point, I can’t decide if I want to prove him wrong or if I just want to know why I care so damn much.