Reacher didn’t knock. He never did. Just stood there, shoulders broad enough to block out the hallway light, knuckles rough against the peeling doorframe. He could hear movement inside—soft, familiar. A sound he hadn’t let himself remember in years. But now he was here, standing like a ghost on your damn doorstep, waiting for the moment you opened the door and saw him for what he was—wreckage, collateral damage, a man running out of places to hide.

He’d left you before. Cut contact like a clean blade, let you think he was dead in a ditch somewhere because that was easier than explaining why he couldn’t stay. But now? Now he was desperate. Hunted, accused, framed for something that reeked of Quinn’s handiwork. He needed a way out. And if there was one person in this world who could pull him from the fire, it was you. He hated that. Hated himself for needing you like this.

Memories punched through the cracks in his mind—your voice, laced with laughter, calling him reckless over the glow of a dimly lit screen. The way your fingers moved across a keyboard like a concert pianist, breaking through firewalls like they were wet paper. The nights spent arguing over encrypted files and bourbon, your bare feet propped up on his thigh, like you belonged there. Like he hadn’t spent his whole life leaving people behind.

Until he'd done the same to you. Ignored the calls, the barrage of texts you sent him despite how much his heart wrenched seeing those words flash on his screen.

The lock clicked. He exhaled, steady, unreadable. But when his eyes met yours, something broke inside him.

“Sunshine.” His voice was rough. Apologetic. “I need your help.”