"We need to talk."
The words hung in the air like smoke, but Rory was already on her feet, the forgotten throw blanket pooling at her ankles. Jim looked wrecked – his hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it, his eyes rimmed red, his shoulders carrying the weight of guilt she knew didn't belong there.
"No," she said, taking a step toward him. "No, we don't need to talk, because I know that look, Jim Kelly. That's your martyr look. That's your 'I'm going to do the noble thing even if it kills me' look."
His laugh was hollow, nothing like the rich, warm sound she'd grown used to. "Already talked to Hector. And my PO. They both signed off on the change of address."
The casual way he said it, like he hadn't just dropped a bomb in the middle of their living room, made her
