“Washington for a year. Then maybe New York. Joint task force.”
You nodded once too quickly, like a professional colleague hearing routine news. “That’s a good opportunity.”
“Yes.”
The silence stretched.
You hated it.
Not because silence itself frightened you anymore. Because this one was full of choices neither of you had made in time. Somewhere between the cathedral and now, he had become part of the architecture of your recovery—not the center, never that, but a load-bearing wall in the rebuilding. The thought of him leaving tugged somewhere deeper than pride could comfortably admit.
He seemed to sense the exact shape of your restraint.
“Clara,” he said quietly, “I didn’t stay this long just because of the case.”
Your heart kicked once, hard.
“I know.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you?”
You looked away toward the city lights. “I suspected.”
“That’s annoyingly diplomatic.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Occupational hazard.”
He stepped closer then, not enough to crowd you, enough that the old electricity came alive between breaths. “I didn’t say anything because you were rebuilding a company, protecting your brother, and learning how to stand in rooms people once tried to weaponize against you. You did not need a complicated man with unresolved grief mistaking intensity for timing.”
The honesty of that undid you more than any polished declaration could have.
“So don’t make a speech,” you said softly. “Just tell me what’s true.”
His gaze held yours.
“What’s true,” he said, “is that I have wanted to kiss you since the day you nearly insulted me for reading too calmly on that plane. And what’s also true is that wanting something has very little moral value unless the timing doesn’t cost the other person their balance.”
You laughed under your breath, which turned into something shakier.
“That is the most investigator thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“It’s the clean version.”
You set the glass down on the terrace rail because your hand had stopped being useful. “For someone so precise, you can be remarkably frustrating.”
“Likewise.”
Another beat passed.
Then you said, “You may have waited too long.”
His face changed.
Not to hurt. To focus.
“Is that true?”
You stepped closer until there was barely air left between you. “No.”
He kissed you like a man who had spent too long translating feeling into discipline and had finally run out of patience for his own restraint. One hand lifted to the back of your neck, careful but not tentative. The other settled at your waist with a steadiness that grounded rather than claimed. The kiss was not desperate. It was worse. It was certain.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing harder than dignity preferred.
“So,” you murmured, “that transfer.”
He rested his forehead lightly against yours for a second, then pulled back enough to look at you clearly. “I haven’t accepted.”
“Good.”
