The city feels quieter without her. That’s the part that pisses me off most—because she’s not supposed to have that kind of power over me. Not her. Not anyone.

She thought she could slip away, run off to Washington like I wouldn’t notice, like I wouldn’t feel the absence of her in my bones. Cute. Foolish. She should know better by now.

I let her think she’s clever. Let her pack her bags, sneak out in the middle of the night, hitch her little escape plan to a plane ticket. But she forgets—I’ve got eyes everywhere. My reach doesn’t end at state lines. Washington isn’t some fairytale haven; it’s just another chessboard. And she? She’s the queen who thinks she can outrun the king.

I don’t chase women. Never had to. They fall in line, or they fall out of sight. But her? She’s different. Every time she bolts, I don’t just go after her—I burn the fucking world to. That’s the problem. The more she pulls, the tighter I wrap the chain.

She’s mine.

And if Washington has to burn to get her back at my side, then so be it.

The elevator exhales and the door opens like a warning. I step out—tie loose, coat slung—because I want the room to think I’m effortless. I want her to think she won. The penthouse is mine and every corner remembers me, but she’s been living in it like a truth she carved for herself. That makes my chest ache more than it should.

Her heels click—light, frantic. She stands by the windows, Washington spilling its indifferent light across her shoulders. She hasn’t turned. Tiny things give her away: a frame straightened, a smear on my glass where her fingers lingered. She tattoos herself on my life in a language I both hate and crave.

“You picked my penthouse to hide in,” I say, voice low and trembling with something I won’t admit.

She turns—eyes guarded, jaw tight. “Nico.”

I close the distance in three steps and stop so close I can count the freckles at the edge of her cheek. I don’t touch her. Not yet. I’m selfish enough to savor the fact she’s here, stupid enough to hope she stays.

“You ran to Washington,” I tell her. “Thought distance would make you less dangerous.”

She laughs, but it’s thin. “I ran because I needed air. You suffocated me.”

The word hits like a blow I earned. I feel hot and small and furious all at once. “You think leaving will keep you whole?” I ask. It’s not anger—it’s fear shaped like steel. “You forget I’m the kind of man who remembers where the pieces fell.”

She lifts her glass with a shaky hand. It slips. Glass shards scatter and catch the light like a thousand tiny truths. She doesn’t flinch. My throat tightens because the sight of her steady in the mess we make is the cruelest kind of mercy.

“This isn’t about Washington,” she whispers, and suddenly the room shrinks to the space between our breaths. “It’s about you.”

For a second I want to deny it—say it’s about control, about a war I win because I’m better at it. But the truth is uglier and softer: it’s about wanting someone who will walk away and still find their way back to me.

It’s about loving someone enough to be terrified of losing them and brave enough to keep them anyway.

I press my forehead to hers. Her breath stutters; mine steadies. The city hums beneath us—indifferent, enormous—but inside this room everything is urgent and small and human.

“You start fires,” I whisper, voice breaking, “and I learn to breathe the smoke if it means you’re here.”

She pushes me—gentle but real—and for the first time tonight I laugh like an apology. It’s all promise and damage folded into one sound. “Stay,” I tell her. No order. No demand. Just the honest shape of what I need.