Page 47 of Borrowed Pain
"You're enjoying this," I observed.
"Feeding you? Yeah, I am." He whisked the eggs. "Therapist thing, probably. I like caring for people who forget to take care of themselves."
"I don't forget. Different priorities take over."
"Such as?"
I gestured toward my evidence wall, where nine faces stared down at us through the blue glow of my monitors. "Justice. Truth. Making sure the people responsible for destroying lives face consequences."
Miles poured the eggs into the pan, where they began forming golden curds. "And what about making sure the person seeking justice doesn't destroy himself in the process?"
He hit a raw nerve. Self-care felt like betrayal when others had died for institutional failures I'd failed to expose.
"That's not how this works," I said.
"Isn't it?" Miles stirred the eggs with gentle movements, and his voice turned clinical. "Living on coffee and guilt, sleeping three hours a night, building relationships with dead people because the living ones require emotional energy you've allocated elsewhere."
The clinical assessment was accurate enough to sting. "I have relationships."
"With sources and suspects. When's the last time you had dinner with someone without discussing murder or conspiracy?"
I couldn't remember. Federal contacts, podcast listeners, witnesses like Miles—every connection in my life revolved around professional necessity or investigative utility.
"Before the Bureau," I admitted.
Miles plated the eggs. "That's years of isolation disguised as dedication."
"It kept me focused."
"It kept you alone."
The eggs were perfect—creamy texture brightened by herbs—real food prepared by someone who cared whether I consumed nutrients instead of only caffeine and carbohydrates.
"I don't know how," I said quietly.
"How to what?"
"Live. Trust. Let someone close without calculating how they could turn on me." I met his gaze across the table. "I've been thinking tactically for so long that I don't remember how to think emotionally."
Miles reached across the space between us, covering my hand with his palm. "Maybe you don't have to choose. Maybe tactical thinking and emotional connection can coexist."
"Where?"
"Here, for starters."
While we finished our eggs, I detected a bit of shyness under the smile on Miles's face.
After I carried our empty plates to the kitchen, I pulled open a drawer and came up with the tin of cookies I'd baked three days ago.
"Three days stale," I warned.
Miles cracked one in half and handed me a piece. "So are we."
He steered me to the couch, the two of us shoulder to shoulder, chewing quietly. The sweetness cut through the metallic taste of fear. His head leaned against mine.
For a moment, we let ourselves breathe.
Then Miles stood and walked to the window. "Rowan," he said, voice low.
