23. Greg

Icontinue to rub her back, feeling a bit lost on how else to comfort her. She's just bared her soul to me, confessing what the law might see as murder. But in my heart, it doesn't sit right to label it that way. Reflecting on my years as an officer before joining the FBI, I recognize the signs all too well. Domestic violence isn't a stranger to any cop, and the patterns are eerily familiar. First with the insults, then a half harmless shove. It always turns into a hit, then escalates to something far worse. If he was brandishing a weapon to intimidate her, it was only a matter of time before he used it. Maybe it would have taken an hour, maybe a few years, but it always ends the same way.

A thought strikes me suddenly. We could fight this. I could take her back home, get a lawyer, and clear her name. She wouldn't have to hide anymore and could see her family without fear.

"Sam…" I begin, but she tenses up at my tone.

She starts to rise, tears still marking her cheeks, reaching for her purse. Instinctively, I'm on my feet, wanting to stop her. "Wait! Just let me talk."

She turns defensive, her arms crossed. "I don't need to hear it, Greg. I get it okay?" Her eyes narrow. "But just tell me one thing, are you going to turn me in?"

The disbelief hits me hard. Does she really see me as someone who could do that? "No, I would never," I assure her, trying to convey every ounce of sincerity I possess.

She looks at me skeptically as if trying to discern the truth in my eyes. "I swear, Sam, I wouldn't do that to you. After hearing the story…" I pause, glancing upwards, struggling with the weight of her situation. "I was a cop, okay? I've seen how these situations unfold. It honestly sounds like self-defense to me."

"Yes. The son of a billionaire lawyer is dead because of me. I never made a previous police report about the abuse and was the beneficiary of his life insurance policy. I'm certain that a jury would see it as self-defense."

I wince. She's right, and my brief pause only reinforces her fears. When she makes to leave again, I fight the urge to reach out and grab her arm. But no. I can't physically stop her. Touching her at all without her permission after what she just told me would be a mistake. The poor, beautiful woman has already endured too much in her life.

With my hands buried in my hair, mostly to keep from reaching out, my heart pounds frantically. I can't stand the thought of her leaving, especially not like this, so distressed. "Sam! Just…" She pauses, hand on the doorknob, and I can hear the weariness in her voice. "Just what, Greg?"

"Stay!" The word bursts out of me. I need her to understand she's safe here, with me. That I'm not going to turn her in, she might not know about my assignment, but the job be damned anyway.

"Why? Why would you want me after what I just told you?"

Finding the right words feels like navigating a minefield. But it's the truth that needs to be said, regardless of the consequences. So I let it out, the most honest thing I've ever said, "Cause I love you!"

She whirls around, her shock palpable. "You WHAT?"

I step closer, grasping her hands. "Yes, I know it's fast—"

"Like going supersonic down a hundred-foot wave after sitting still for eight years..." she mutters, avoiding my gaze.

"But it's true. I was married for six years and never felt like this." She continues to look down, and I gently grasp her shoulders. "Stay, Sam. Let me show you I'm serious."

Finally, she looks up. "With what, sex?"

I can't help but roll my eyes at that. "No." She recoils a bit and I know I've said the wrong thing. "I mean, yes, eventually..." A laugh escapes me at the confusing sentence. "We know that part works. Let me show you I mean it. You're safe with me. All of you and your past." She looks into my eyes, her expression a tangled mix of affection and disbelief as if she can't quite grasp the sincerity of my words.

"Stay. Watch the movie," I repeat.

Her response comes without hesitation. "Okay." With stiff movements, she settles onto the couch. I give her space, though all I want to do is hold onto her. The remote is on the coffee table and we both reach for it at the same time. There's an awkward movement when our hands touch. She snaps her fingers away, and I throw a small smile her way.

"Guess we need practice with the whole domestic night-in thing," I say. And it seems to do the trick because she chuckles. It's as if the room deflates off the tension. Taking that as my cue, I slide my body down on the brown microfiber, relishing the soft fabric against my skin when I lay my arm behind her.

As we watch the movie, I feel Sam gradually relaxing into my presence. Initially, she's rigid as I play with her hair, but slowly, she leans into my touch, eventually resting her head against my chest, her body easing into the comfort I offer.

Looking down at her now, lying so peacefully asleep on my chest, my heart races. She's accepted my feelings, and she hasn't fled. It's more than I dared hope for. Yet, the looming conversation about my job weighs heavily on me. I need to tell her sooner rather than later.

But watching her sleep so soundly, the idea of causing her any pain is unbearable. Revealing the truth about my work, I know it'll hurt her. I switch off the movie, and the room is engulfed in silence, yet she remains undisturbed.

Smiling softly, I lift her up, carrying her to my room with the utmost care, laying her gently on my bed. Seeing her there, so perfect and calm, I feel a rush of desire. It's been a long few weeks without sex. But I remind myself—she's not going anywhere. There's time for us, plenty of it.

I curl up beside her, pulling the thin blue blanket over us both. As I close my eyes, I'm certain there's nowhere else I'd rather be.