Steele’s Redemption

Chapter 14

Jake

The penthouse locked down the way it always did—three deadbolts, the keypad chirping green, the low hum of the security panel syncing to my phone. Emma stood in the entryway like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to move past the mat.

"You're good to walk around," I said. "This isn't Derek's house. Nothing in here requires permission."

"Old habit." She toed off her shoes anyway, lining them up neat against the wall. "Where do you want me to sleep?"

"Wherever you want. Guest room's made up. Couch folds out if you want to be closer to the kitchen. My room's down the hall if being near me helps you sleep better, and I'll take the couch." I said it flat, no weight on it. "Your choice. Every night, if it changes."

She studied me a second too long, like she was waiting for a catch. There wasn't one. I'd learned fast that the worst thing I could do was make comfort feel like a bill coming due later.

"Guest room," she said. "For tonight."

"Copy that." I walked her through the panel on the wall—cameras on the lobby, the parking garage, the fire stairs. "You can watch any feed from your phone once I add you. Anything moves wrong, you don't wait to ask if it's nothing. You call."

"And if it is nothing?"

"Then it's nothing and we're both a little jumpy. Cheaper than the alternative."

That got the corner of her mouth up, small but real.

I made food while she wandered the kitchen, running a finger along the edge of the counter like she was cataloguing it. Eggs, toast, the good butter my sister kept restocking because she thought I lived on protein bars and spite. Emma sat on the stool across the island and watched me cook with the same focus she gave everything—careful, assessing, like she was still deciding whether trust was a thing she could afford twice in one lifetime.

"You actually know how to cook," she said. "That surprises me."

"My mom made sure of it before she passed. Said no son of hers was growing up useless in a kitchen." I flipped the eggs, kept my eyes on the pan instead of her. Didn't offer more than that. Some doors I only opened partway, even for her.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "About your mom."

"Long time ago." I slid a plate toward her. "Eat something that isn't crackers for once."

She ate slower than I did, methodical, savoring it in a way that told me food had been rationed at some point, maybe by someone else's rules. I didn't ask. Some things she'd tell me when she was ready, and I'd learned patience the hard way, watching her flinch less every week that passed.

We ended up on the couch after, the city lit up gold and indifferent behind glass. She curled into the corner of it, knees drawn up, closer to me than she'd sat before.

"About earlier," she said. "At the shop."

"You don't have to explain yourself."

"I'm not explaining. I'm telling you I meant it." Her eyes stayed steady on mine, which cost her something—I could see the effort in it. "I know what this looks like. You saved me. You pay me. I sleep in your building tonight because it's safer than mine. Doesn't mean what I feel isn't real."

"I know it's real." My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. "That's the problem."

"How is that a problem?"

"Because I want you, Emma. Have since the second week, if I'm being honest, and I hate that timeline as much as you probably would if you knew it." I made myself keep talking instead of stopping there, where it would've been easier to leave it vague. "But you're three weeks out from a marriage that took your choices away one at a time until you didn't have any left. I'm not going to be one more person who decides things for you because it's convenient that I want to."

"You're not deciding anything. I am." Some heat came into it now, not anger exactly—more like she needed me to hear it. "You don't get to tell me my feelings aren't mine because of when they happened."

"I'm not telling you that."

"You kind of are."

I let that sit, because she wasn't wrong, and I'd rather admit it than argue a point I didn't fully believe. "Fair. Then let me say it different. I want this to be something you choose with a clear head, not something that happens because I'm the safest thing in the room right now."

"And if it's both?" she asked. "Safe and real? Does it have to be one or the other?"

I didn't have an answer for that. Not one that didn't sound like an excuse.

She moved first—closer, slow enough that I had every chance to stop it and didn't. Her hand found my jaw, light, testing.

"Can I?" she asked.

"Yeah." My voice had gone low, rough at the edges again. "You can."

The kiss was brief. Careful. Her mouth soft against mine for three, four seconds, and then she pulled back on her own terms, which was the whole point—that she could, that nothing in me had grabbed on to keep it going past what she offered.

"Okay," she said, a little breathless, like she was surprised by herself. "That's enough for tonight."

"Good," I said. "That's exactly enough."

My phone buzzed against the coffee table before either of us could decide what came next.

*Nash: Got something. Building maintenance log shows a work order filed for Emma's floor two days before the photo. Fake company. Same day someone accessed the clinic parking garage cameras remotely. Somebody's using paperwork as a key.*

I read it twice. Emma leaned over, and I didn't hide the screen from her—she'd earned better than that.

"A work order," she said slowly. "Someone just... walked in."

"Someone who knew how to make it look ordinary." I was already standing, already running the perimeter app on instinct, checking the lobby feed, the garage, the stairwell door that should've been locked at this hour.

The stairwell camera showed nothing. Empty concrete, flickering light.

Then it caught someone testing the handle. Just once. Testing, not entering.

Whoever it was already knew exactly which door to try.