Page 117 of Borrowed Pain
"How do you feel?" he asked once we were safely enclosed in our room.
I sank into the desk chair. "Like I performed my own psychological autopsy on national television."
"Regrets?"
"No."
Rowan knelt beside my chair, hands settling on my knees. "It matters. You made it impossible for them to dismiss systematic abuse as isolated incidents."
"And made it impossible for me to practice therapy anonymously ever again." I laughed. "Every potential client will know exactly how to break me down. They'll find footage of me describing my psychological vulnerabilities in clinical detail."
"Or they'll see someone who survived systematic manipulation and came out strong enough to expose it publicly."
"Maybe." I leaned forward. "I want to go home."
"Tonight?"
"Right now. I want to be somewhere that smells like coffee instead of political ambition. Somewhere, the only cameras are security feeds nobody watches."
Rowan smiled. "I'll change our flights."
Seattle rain welcomed us home. Rowan's loft was a sanctuary—exposed brick and tall windows, with the ghosts of past investigations pinned to the far wall.
"Phones off," I said as we dropped our bags.
Rowan placed both devices on the desk and powered them down.
"Food," I said. "Something that tastes like it belongs to us."
We walked to the corner market through rain that soaked our shoulders and plastered our hair to our heads. The clerk rang up pasta, tomatoes, and wine without recognition—we were nobody special, only another couple buying groceries for the night.
Back in the loft, our domestic rhythm was meditative after days of public performance. Rowan chopped vegetables while I peeled garlic.
"You were incredible today," he said, not looking up from the cutting board.
"I was functional."
"You were brave." He caught my wrist as I reached for a corkscrew. "Miles, what you did today—most people couldn't have managed it."
"Most people wouldn't have walked into Harrow's trap in the first place."
"Most people wouldn't have survived it. You did both."
The pasta water boiled over, sending steam clouds toward the ceiling. I moved to stir the pot, but Rowan's hands settled on my hips, holding me in place.
"I'm proud of you," he said against my ear.
The simple words nearly undid me. After weeks of media attention and political theater, someone was proud of me for reasons unrelated to public service or professional duty. He was proud because I'd survived, fought back, and chosen truth over comfort.
I turned in his arms, wine forgotten. "I love you."
"I love you too." His lips found mine, gentle at first, as our tongues danced.
We cooked like that—close enough that shoulders knocked and hips bumped. When I bent to stir the sauce, his palm settled briefly at the small of my back.
He poured wine while the pasta boiled. He handed me a glass, and we toasted.
"To surviving," I said.
