Page 44 of This Life of Mine

That’s when I started going in.

Black coffee. One of their delicious Mexican Conchas and a seat with my laptop, pretending to work. I was close enough to observe without being obvious. Far enough to be seen as another regular who likes regimen.

I convinced myself it was refinement. Better intel. The truth was simpler. I stopped watching the room and started watching her. The way she listens—fully, generously—whether someone deserves it or not. The way she moves with quiet competence. The way she laughs, head tips back briefly before she reins it in.

I catalog all of it. I shouldn’t. But I do.

And now she’s gone. She went to his place.

Fucking EJ.

The thought lands wrong. Piercing. Unwelcome. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t imagine what kind of man he is with her. I shouldn’t wonder whether he understands how rare her attention actually is. This is still surveillance. Still an assignment. But this doesn’t seem like I’m only watching anymore. It seems as if I’m waiting.

In six weeks, I’ve seen more of her life than I ever intended—morning routines, gym sessions, long workdays that bleed into longer nights.

And the dates. God. The fucking dates. And with absolute pricks.

Watching her get ready was bad enough—choosing clothes, fixing her hair, checking her reflection like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to want, to be wanted.

But it was the waiting that carved into me. The not knowing. Whether the night would end with a polite goodbye or with her disappearing into someone else’s space. Whether the man across from her understood what it meant to be trusted with her time—or try to take more than she offered.

I heard the conversations. Laughter drifting through patios. Men talking over her, leaning too close, mistaking warmth for invitation. Each word pressed against my chest, dull and insistent.

I stayed distant. Invisible. A shadow where a shadow belonged. SomethingThe Wraithis good at.

But distance didn’t stop the ache. Didn’t stop my jaw tightening when a hand brushed her arm. Didn’t stop the calculations. Is this the night she doesn’t come home alone?

None of them mattered. This dipshit EJ doesn’t either. At least, he shouldn’t.

He’s a distraction from what she keeps telling her friend Val. A known variable. He’s predictable. Harmless in the ways that matter.

And still. I saw her leave her house. Heels that change the way she moves—makes her tone calves and thighs flex. A short black coat tied at the waist, framing her curves. Hair done. Glossed lips.

She looked fucking stunning.

Nothing flashy or trying too hard. Completely conscious of herself. Of her body. Of the fact that tonight, she wants to be desired.

That kind of effort isn’t for the world at large. It’s for one set of eyes. And it had to behis.

Fuck!

If that present had been intended for me—I’m uncertain how long my self-control would have lasted. The sensation sinks low in my stomach.

She’s a grown, independent woman—allowed to want, to choose, to be seen by whomever she decides.

Watching her walk away—knowing I had no claim, no right to stop her—was like a blade lodged under my ribs.

I reasoned it was none of my business. That her nights are hers. That wondering who else’s fucking bed she was lying in that wasn’t mine was irrational and dangerously close to crossing a line.

But the image follows me block after block—her silhouette disappearing into his home. The echo of his laughter. The sound she made—soft, unguarded as pleasure began to tease her.

Something inside me snapped taut. Heat flooded my chest. My hands curl into fists, the strain biting into my palms. In that instant, the world narrowed to distance and force. I thought about how fast I could turn back, how easily a door could give. Training screamed at me to stand down. I barely listened.

I force myself forward now, every step of restraint dragged back from the brink. The weight in my chest doesn’t lift. It condenses.

That’s when I understand the real danger isn’t him. It’s how close I came to losing myself. The realization sinks in, carrying a weight I can’t ignore. Logic doesn’t help. Discipline doesn’t either.

I need movement. Noise in my lungs. Burn in my muscles.