Page 21 of The Last Call Home
Now he’s here, just like that, sitting in her café like the universe wants to remind me that I never really let go.
I should’ve been ready.
But the truth is, I’m not.I’m so far from ready it’s laughable.
It’s been weeks since that morning, and I’m still spiraling.Still pretending this badge is enough to keep me anchored when the ground keeps shifting.I spend my days patrolling like a man with purpose and my nights wondering when everything will crack open again.
Because it will, that’s how this goes.First, you lie to yourself, then to them.Then something explodes.
Cassian being here?That’s the match.
Delilah?
She’s the gasoline.
And me?
I’m the dumbass standing too close, daring them both to light the fuse.
Calm the fuck down, Timberbridge.You’re just all worked up because you just left the tattoo parlor, and fucking Atlas just gave you an attitude.
He did, I went to his new shop to warn him ...okay, maybe I shouldn’t have been an asshole with him, but why the fuck is he here?I don’t buy the whole ‘I just set up a tattoo parlor and I’m back in Birchwood Springs’ thing.Is he working for Crait Quantum Shield?
I noticed all the cameras in his building.They said they would be sending assets.I don’t think the new doctor is an asset.Simone Moreau is just their medical officer on site because they’re expecting casualties.There’re always two assets on site ...it’s probably him.Cassian.There’s no other explanation as to why he’s here.
The question is, why didn’t he change his name?It’s protocol to create a new persona when you’re undercover, isn’t it?He bought the fucking building and started a new business—all under his real name.I didn’t think ...what the fuck is he doing?He’s blowing off his life?
Since I’m running on adrenaline and rage, I decide to pay a visit to Cassian.It’s time to avoid him and start facing my new reality.He’s here, and I have to make boundaries.
It doesn’t take long to walk from the tattoo parlor to the bar.Birchwood Springs isn’t big, but today, it feels smaller—like it’s folding in on me.Or maybe I’m just unraveling.Maybe this whole week has been one giant unraveling, and I’m the thread that keeps snagging on him.
Cassian fucking Harlan.
I’m not thinking—just moving.Which is dangerous.Because when I think, I see his name on that business license.His real name.Not a fake one.Not a pseudonym with a throwaway backstory like a good undercover agent is supposed to use.
No.He came here as Cassian Harlan.Bought a whole-ass building.Hung his identity on a wooden sign and poured himself into this life, like a continuation.Not something temporary that he’ll erase soon.
It’s almost laughable.
Almost.
If I laugh, I might scream.
By the time I reach the back of the building, my hands are clenched into fists in my coat pockets.The morning’s dragging itself into early afternoon.
I knock once on the back door, then immediately regret how much rage I packed into my knuckles.
Footsteps shuffle behind the door.Slow.Lazy.As if he just had rolled out of bed or is pretending to have done so.When it creaks open, Cassian is backlit by the soft haze of a bare bulb overhead.Sleepy eyes.Hair tousled.A t-shirt slung over one shoulder like he didn’t even bother putting it on properly.
Of course he looks good like that.Of course, he does.
The door swings wide enough for me to see the stairs winding up behind him, likely to the apartment above.And through a narrow hall to the left, I glimpse the bar.It’s dim, quiet, and untouched.
I’m not sure what I expected.A neon sign blinking “Asshole Lives Here”?A strobe light casting a spotlight on his betrayal?
“Sheriff,” he says, voice rough.Still waking up.Or pretending to.With him, I never know anymore.“Didn’t think I’d see you today.”
His tone is too casual.Like this is a perfectly normal day and not a what-the-fuck-is-your-game confrontation in the making.
