Page 171 of Beyond Protection
"Every day I think about how close I came to saying no. To walking away." He lifted our joined hands, kissed my knuckles—the pressure was warm and deliberate. "And then I remember you told me you had faith in me from the beginning. You trusted me before I trusted myself."
I kissed him, tasting coffee and his mint toothpaste.
Michael leaned over the railing. "You two done?"
Eamon squeezed my hand once more and headed back to his desk.
I climbed the iron stairs, smiling.
My office doubled as command center and the face we showed the world. One wall was all screens—client feeds scrolling in real time. The senator's detail in DC, the tech billionaire's family in San Francisco, and security advance for a film festival in Vancouver.
I was wearing jeans and sneakers. Hair uncombed. The relaxed posture of a man who didn't miss the cameras.
Sometimes I still got phantom nerves before I checked my phone—the muscle memory of a life spent bracing for criticism and proof that I was performing wrong. Now, baseball was someone else's story.
I didn't miss it as much as I thought I would.
I missed the precision and discipline. The chess match of reading a pitcher, knowing when to swing, and when to wait. But I didn't miss being watched. Didn't miss the weight of representing something larger than myself.
Here, the only person I represented was myself.
An investor call came in at eleven. New York money wanting to help expand our West Coast operations, maybe open a Portland branch. The guy on the other end had done his research—kept mentioning my "unique perspective" and "built-in media connections."
Code for: you're famous and gay and you can sell that.
"Here's the thing," I said finally. "We're not interested in expansion right now. We're interested in doing this right. And doing it right means staying small enough to actually know our clients' names."
"But the market opportunity—"
I kept my voice calm and easy. "We appreciate the interest. If that changes, we'll call you."
I ended the call before he could counteroffer.
Eamon appeared in the doorway. He leaned his good shoulder against the frame.
"Turning down money," he said. "Bold."
"Turning down bullshit. Practical."
He crossed to my desk and spun my chair so I was facing him. His hands found my hips, thumbs pressing against bone through my jeans.
I pulled him down for a kiss. When we broke apart, he was still smiling.
He returned to his office, and I thought about the file that left an empty spot in my drawer.
Two weeks earlier, I'd taken it to Eamon and said, "I don't need to keep carrying this." We'd shredded it together, fed the pieces to the office shredder, and watched Vanessa Kensington's case turn into confetti.
She was in a psychiatric forensic unit outside Tacoma. Getting treatment she should've had years ago. Her art therapy output had made the news once, with intricate charcoal sketches of museum artifacts. People online called it haunting.
I called it proof that precision without humanity was merely empty technique.
I hoped she was getting better and that she understood what she'd done, and what she'd tried to do.
Eamon never asked if I thought about her. His silence meant he already knew the answer.
My phone buzzed.
Claire:New piece finished. Coming by Friday with plants. Don't water old ones before I get there.
