Page 25 of Borrowed Pain
I studied his profile in the dashboard's green glow. "You're nervous."
"Nervous? Me?" Miles snickered and shook his head. "Why would I be nervous? Just sitting in a car in the dark, watching an office building where phantom therapists allegedly brainwashed my dead client."
"Miles."
"I mean, this is basically every amateur detective movie ever made, right? Two guys, one car, staking out the bad guys' lair. Except usually there's more action and fewer insurance forms. Maybe we should have brought snacks."
The words tumbled out faster than he could control them, each joke building on the last like a comedian working a hostile crowd.
"You don't have to keep doing that," I said quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Using humor to keep me at arm's length." I turned to face him fully, our knees nearly touching in the cramped space. "You don't need to entertain me, Miles."
His laugh died in his throat. For a moment, we sat in silence, broken only by the irregular rhythm of the windshield wipers.
"It's not you I'm keeping at arm's length." He leaned toward the windshield and looked up at the glass and steel tower before us.
"Every time something gets real, you crack a joke. Every time I'm too close, you deflect with some bit about spy movies or snacks."
Miles set his thermos in the cup holder with deliberate care. "Ever get scared, Rowan?"
Understanding thundered in my head. "Fuck… sorry."
"Apology accepted."
I spoke softly. "I do the same thing, except with work instead of humor. When I feel that chill up my spine, I bury myself in case files and evidence boards."
"Why are you telling me this?" Miles asked.
"Because we're about to walk into something dangerous, and I need to know you're here with me. Not hiding behind jokes or pretending this is some adventure we can laugh off later. I need my partner present."
Partner.I surprised myself by saying it out loud.
"I'm scared," Miles said quietly.
"Of what?"
"Of finding out what really happened to Iris. Of learning that I could have prevented it if I'd asked the right questions eighteen months ago." His breath fogged the passenger window. "Of discovering that every client I've lost was my fault somehow."
The vulnerability in his voice cut through every one of my defenses. It wasn't only his words—it was how he looked saying them, how his guard dropped, leaving him unprotected and real.
His mouth was so close to mine. It made me wonder about the taste of his lips.
"I'm scared too," I said.
Miles echoed my question. "Of what?"
"Of losing another partner to this investigation. Of being wrong about everything and dragging you down with me." I met his gaze. "Of caring more about solving these cases than protecting the people trying to help me solve them."
Rain intensified against the windshield, turning the building's lights into abstract smears of yellow and white.
"We're both pretty fucked up," Miles said, and for the first time all evening, his smile was genuine.
"Yeah. We are."
Movement in the building's lobby caught my attention. Security guards making their rounds, flashlights sweeping across empty corridors. Then, twenty minutes later, a cleaning crew arrived—three people with key cards and industrial vacuum cleaners.
