Guns and Roses

The only fool

Genevieve

I was bone-tired when I got home. My body ached from chasing shadows all day, and my mind wasn’t far behind. I lived alone now—away from my father, away from expectations. A quiet little townhouse in the city, just me and my peace.

I unlocked the door and stepped in. Darkness. I flicked the switch.

The lights came on, and my blood turned to ice.

A man was sitting at my dining table.

Not moving. Not flinching. Just watching me like he’d been expecting this exact moment.

I pulled my gun before I even blinked, aiming straight for his chest. “Get on the floor. Now.”

He didn’t move. He just stared.

Something in the way he sat… something in the way his eyes traced my face like he already knew it.

“You don’t recognize me?” he finally asked, voice low, heavy.

I said nothing. Because I did. I recognized him the second the light hit his face.

Leo Saint-Laurent.

The man who shattered me at seventeen and never looked back.

The boy I begged to be gentle.

The boy who promised to try—and then vanished into smoke, leaving me holding pieces of my own heart like glass.

“You don’t get to speak,” I said coldly, lifting my gun just slightly. “You don’t get to be here.”

“Geni—”

I shot the light bulb above his head.

Glass shattered, raining down like tiny bombs. He flinched, arms flying up to shield his face.

I moved.

Before he could recover, I was on him. Tackled him straight off the chair and slammed him to the floor. He tried to twist away, but I was already pulling the cuffs off my belt.

“Wait! Geni, listen—just listen to me—”

“You lost the right to call me that,” I spat.

The metal clicked shut around his wrists. Tight.

He looked up at me, breathless. Bruised. Maybe even a little broken. But I didn’t care.

“You broke into my house,” I said. “You’re under arrest.”

I stood, stepped back, and pulled out my phone. Called it in.

My voice was steady. “Yeah, it’s Taylor. I have a suspect in custody. Breaking and entering.”

As I waited, I looked down at him one last time.

Saint-Laurent Leo.

The man who chose the streets over me.

And now?

Now he was mine.

In cuffs.

Just like I always knew he’d be.

I didn’t say a word the entire ride back to the station.

The cuffs sat cold against his wrists, his breathing steady like this was just another Tuesday night for him. Maybe it was. Maybe this was his normal. But it wasn’t mine. Not anymore. Not after everything I had done to build a life that didn’t circle back to him.

My hands shook the moment I handed him off to booking.

I shouldn’t have looked at him, but I did. Just once. Just long enough for our eyes to meet.

His eyes hadn’t changed. Still dark, still unreadable, still dragging you into a place you had no business being in. Still the kind of eyes that made girls disappear into ruin.

He didn’t say anything. Not when I aimed my gun. Not when I slammed him against the floor. Not when I snapped the cuffs over his wrists like they were made for him. And not even now, under fluorescent lights and the smell of cold metal, with everyone watching.

But he looked at me like he had been waiting.

And that was what scared me.

Because maybe he had.

Once he was processed and locked behind the holding cell doors, I walked out. Straight to the locker room. Sat down on the bench and buried my head in my hands. I hadn’t cried in years, not since my mom got sick, not since I walked out of Willhound with my heart in pieces and swore I’d never let anyone make a fool of me again.

But now, my throat was tight. My chest? Cracked wide open.

Because no matter how far I’d come. Police badge, steel resolve, stone heart and all, seeing him again peeled everything back.

He was the boy who taught me how to be cold.

The boy who taught me what betrayal tasted like.

And yet, all I could think about was the way his voice used to soften when he said my name. The way he’d trace the lines of my palm like they told the story of who I was. The way his lips touched neck and shoulders like he had nothing else to lose.

Damn him.

I hated him.

But I hated myself more for still remembering those things.

I sat there, frozen, while my thoughts ran laps around the inside of my skull. One part of me wanted to tear him apart with everything I’d become. The other… still wondered if he remembered the beach. My curls in the wind. My laugh in his chest. The promises he never kept.

Because if he remembered that?

Then maybe I wasn’t the only fool.