I had spent my whole life walking into the wrong hands.

Maybe it was inevitable—like something in me was wired to chase after the warmth I was never given, to reach for the steady presence I never had. I thought I found it once. I thought he was the answer. But he wasn’t. He was a lesson. A punishment.

And now, I was standing in the wreckage of his betrayal.

The city was loud—sirens, voices, the hum of traffic—but it all felt distant. I sat on the curb, arms wrapped around my knees, my skin damp with sweat and rain. My hands were shaking. I told myself it was the cold.

Then, he appeared.

Horatio Caine.

He crouched beside me, one knee to the ground, his sunglasses shielding his expression. But I knew he was studying me, weighing something in that quiet way of his.

"You’re safe now," he said.

I let out a hollow laugh. "Yeah? Says who?"

His head tilted slightly. "Says me."

I should’ve been skeptical. Should’ve pushed him away like I did everyone else. But there was something about him—calm, unwavering, like nothing I did could shake him.

And God, I wanted to believe in that.

So when he reached out a hand, I didn’t pull away.