The door creaked slightly as I pushed it open. Her study was dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of an oil lamp, flickering beside her. She was there, slumped over her desk, her dark overcoat barely doing anything to shield her from the chill that crept through the room. Papers were scattered everywhere—neatly penned notes and diagrams, but my eyes caught the letter beneath her hand.

I should leave the report and go. That’s all she asked.

But something kept me rooted. She looked different like this. Her sharpness, her wit—all of it softened in sleep. I hesitated before stepping closer, removing my own coat and draping it carefully around her shoulders. My fingers brushed her sleeve, lingering for just a moment longer than I should have.

I glanced at the letter she’d been writing. The words struck me like a blow: a recommendation to the prestigious Metropolitan Police. For me.

She wants me gone?

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. Leaning down, I murmured almost too quietly, “I don’t want to go.” My voice trembled as I lingered, hoping she wouldn’t wake, but maybe... hoping she would.