I take a slow breath, my heart still pounding against my ribs, hyperaware of his proximity. My skin feels electric, oversensitive.

And Callahan?

He just watches me.

Like he already knows what I'm thinking.

Like he can read every thought, every fear, every desire directly from my face.

And that?

That might be the scariest thing of all.

The sudden banging on my office door nearly stops my heart. I flinch, my whole body snapping to attention, the moment shattered by the intrusion. The loud pounding reverberates through the room, breaking the charged atmosphere. For a split second, I think Evan. But then I remember—he doesn't even know where my office is.

Then my brain goes to worse possibilities. Some irate customer, some intruder, some threat I can't yet identify. The adrenaline spikes through me, heart racing.

I glance at Callahan, at his broad shoulders, his steady stance, the way he's already turned toward the door, body shifting subtly to place himself between it and me. His whole demeanor has changed in an instant, alert and ready.

Yeah. Sure. Bring it on.

Because despite the loud, frantic knocking, despite the fact that someone is clearly determined to break my door down, I feel...

Weirdly calm.

Because next to him, I feel safe. Protected. Like whatever is on the other side of that door, whatever challenge it brings, I won't have to face it alone.

Then, through the door, I hear a familiar voice, high-pitched with indignation:

"IZZY OPEN UP RIGHT NOW, I'M READY TO COMMIT HOMICIDE IN YOUR NAME."

I let out a short laugh, tension draining from my shoulders, relief washing through me.

Callahan raises a brow, questioning.

"Amanda," I explain, shaking my head, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything. "Let her in before she actually does something illegal."

My brain is already calculating exactly how to defuse whatever Amanda is planning. I've talked her out of five potentially illegal revenge schemes in the past year alone, using the same crisis management skills that help me navigate corporate politics. When your best friend operates with no filter and even less impulse control, you develop certain abilities—like knowing exactly when to distract her, when to reason with her, and when to just hide the sharp objects.

He moves toward the door, unlocking it with a smooth motion. The second it opens, Amanda bursts in like she's been waiting outside with a battering ram, her blonde hair flying, her eyes wild with righteous fury.

"I heard what happened," she says, eyes blazing, hands on her hips, her whole body vibrating with barely contained rage. "And I am fully prepared to unalive multiple people in your honor. Just say the word and I’ll make some calls. I know a guy who can get us industrial-strength acid and a barrel⁠—"

She stops mid-sentence, eyes narrowing.

“Or we could go the old-fashioned route. You distract Evan, I push him down a flight of stairs. It’s elegant, it’s simple, it’s tragic⁠—”

Her gaze snaps to Callahan, finally clocking his presence, his proximity to me.

Then to me, noticing my red-rimmed eyes, the lingering evidence of tears on my cheeks.

Then back to him.

A slow, devious grin spreads across her face, transforming her expression from murderous to delighted in an instant. Her perfectly glossed lips curve upward, her eyes gleaming with interest.

"Ohhhh," she says, dragging the syllable out like she's savoring it, her eyebrows rising toward her hairline. "Sorry for interrupting."

I swear to God.

I want to die.

I want to collapse into a pile of dust.

I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

Callahan, of course, is completely unbothered.

"It's no problem," he says, completely neutral, not giving Amanda anything to work with. His voice betrays nothing of our previous conversation.

Then he looks at me, his expression softening just slightly, just enough for me to notice but hopefully not enough for Amanda to pick up on.

"You good?"

I exhale, nodding, grateful for the simplicity of the question, for not having to explain or justify or analyze.

"Yeah," I say. "I think I'm good."

We just look at each other. A quiet, understanding kind of moment where words aren't necessary, where something passes between us that I couldn't name even if I tried.

Amanda’s watching it all happen, looking like the goddamn Cheshire Cat that also ate the canary, her eyes darting from me to him, cataloging every detail for later analysis. I can practically see her mental notebook filling with observations.

I ignore her pointed look, the way she's practically vibrating with questions and assumptions.

Callahan gives me one last look, then heads for the door, his movements smooth and controlled as always. The air seems to shift as he passes, as if the room itself feels his absence.

"See you later, Russo."

And then he's gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving me alone with Amanda and the lingering warmth of his presence.

The second the door closes, Amanda whirls on me, eyes gleaming with a mixture of concern and excitement, like she can't decide whether to comfort me or interrogate me first.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?"

I drop into my chair, suddenly exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the past hour. "Amanda⁠—"

"No," she says, cutting me off, marching toward me with determination. "Don't even try to play it off. That was A Moment. Capital M Moment. The kind of moment they write about in those books you pretend not to read."

"There was no moment." I try to keep my voice steady, convincing.

"There was absolutely a moment." She throws herself onto the couch like she's settling in for a drama series, crossing her legs and leaning forward, elbows on her knees. "Okay, give me the rundown. What the fuck happened out there? I heard bits and pieces, but I need the full story. From the beginning. Leave nothing out."

I rub my temples, feeling a headache forming behind my eyes. The pressure of my fingertips offers momentary relief. "I do not have the emotional capacity to relive it."

"Too bad, because I need every detail. And I can see from your face that something major went down, so spill."

I groan but give her the short version, summarizing Evan's behavior, Monroe's comments, and Cal's intervention. I leave out the part about crying in my office and about Cal's revelation about his ex-fiancée. Some things feel too private, too raw to share, even with Amanda. My words feel inadequate against the reality of what happened, like trying to describe a hurricane by talking about rain.

By the end of it, she looks like she's about to commit an actual felony, her expression shifting from shocked to outraged to vengeful in rapid succession. Her perfectly manicured nails dig into the couch cushion.

"Evan is a disease," she says, throwing her hands up in disgust. "A full-body, skin-rotting disease, and I need him removed from this earth."

I snort despite myself, a small laugh escaping at her dramatic phrasing. "Okay, dramatic."

"No, I'm serious," she insists, sitting forward on the couch. "He's like—the human equivalent of long COVID. Persistent, exhausting, and still somehow ruining lives years later."

I groan, dropping my head into my hands, but there's a smile tugging at my lips now. Amanda has always been able to make me laugh, even in my darkest moments. "Amanda⁠—"

"Like, they said he would only be around for two weeks, but here we are, three years later, still dealing with the symptoms."