But it was there. It is there. And sooner or later, that control is going to break.
I'm counting on it.
Night falls over the mountain,bringing with it a silence so profound it feels like a physical presence. No traffic noise, no distant sirens, no hum of civilization. Just the whisper of wind through trees and the occasional call of a night bird.
After dinner, we settle in the living room, the fireplace casting dancing shadows across the walls. I'm curled on the couch with another of Finn's books, while he sits in the chair across from me, cleaning a gun.
I find it oddly comforting. Finn's careful attention to the weapon that might someday stand between me and harm.
"Can I ask you something?" I say, setting down my book.
He looks up, hands continuing their work without needing his eyes. "You can ask."
"Before, on the deck... what would have happened if the phone hadn't rung?"
His hands are still on the gun. "You know what would have happened."
"I want to hear you say it."
His eyes meet mine, direct and unwavering. "I would have kissed you."
The simple admission sends heat rushing through me. "And then what?"
"And then I would have remembered that you're my client and I'm your protector, and that crossing that line puts you at risk."
"How does it put me at risk?"
He sets the gun down carefully, giving me his full attention. "Because it compromises my judgment. Because it creates emotional variables in a situation that needs to be handled with clinical precision. Because it makes you more than a responsibility, and that's dangerous for both of us."
"What if I want to be more than a responsibility?"
"It doesn't matter what either of us wants." His voice is hard, but I can hear the strain beneath it. "What matters is keeping you alive."
"And you think you can't do that if there's something between us?"
"I think it creates unnecessary complications in an already complicated situation."
"Life is complicated, Finn." I unfold myself from the couch and move toward him, drawn by something I can't name and don't want to resist. "Sometimes the complications are worth it."
I stop in front of his chair, close enough to touch but not touching. Giving him the choice to retreat or advance.
"Nova." My name is a warning on his lips. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't acknowledge that there's something happening between us? Don't admit that I think about you in ways that have nothing to do with your professional qualifications? Don't tell you that for the first time in years, I feel like someone sees the real me?"
He stands abruptly, towering over me, his eyes stormy with conflicting emotions. "This isn't real. It's a trauma response. Emotional transference. You're vulnerable, I'm your protector, of course, you feel a connection."
"Don't you dare psychoanalyze me." I step closer, eliminating the distance between us. "I know what I feel."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you're a woman running from a stalker, isolated from everything familiar, dependent on me for safety. That's not exactly a foundation for genuine emotion."
His words sting, but I recognize the deflection for what it is. "If you're not interested, just say so. But don't hide behind psychology and professional ethics."
"You think that's what this is? That I'm not interested?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Nova, I haven't been able to think straight since the moment I saw you. And that terrifies me, because the last time I let my guard down on a job, people died."
The raw honesty in his voice stops me cold. This isn't just about professional boundaries or inappropriate attraction. This is about ghosts that still haunt him.
"I'm sorry," I say softly. "I didn't know."
