The penthouse felt quieter than it should have.
Not peaceful—just suspended, like the city itself was holding its breath.
Cynthia Brooks stood by the kitchen counter, fingers wrapped tightly around a mug she hadn't touched in minutes. The coffee had gone cold, but she hadn't noticed. Her attention kept drifting back to Alexander Voss, who stood near the window again, phone in hand, eyes sharp and distant.
He'd been like this all morning—present, but somewhere else.
Watching.
Waiting.
"You're pacing," she said softly.
Alexander glanced at her. "You're counting."
She blinked. "Counting what?"
"Your breaths," he said. "You always do when you're nervous."
Her cheeks warmed. "I didn't realize it was that obvious."
"It is to me."
The words settled between them, heavy and intimate. Cynthia shifted, suddenly aware of how close they were again. The penthouse was large, expansive—but somehow, they kept ending up in the same spaces. Same rooms. Same silence.
She set the mug down. "Alexander… about last night."
He stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"What about it?"
"I—" She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Thank you. For letting me stay. For… not pushing me away."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't do it for thanks."
"I know." She took a step closer. "You did it because you care."
That got his attention.
Alexander turned fully toward her now, eyes dark, unreadable. "Care is dangerous," he said quietly. "It makes people reckless."
"Or human," Cynthia countered.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The air between them grew thick, charged with something neither of them had dared name yet.
"You should be scared of me," he said finally. "Not standing this close."
"I am scared," she admitted. "But not of you."
That was when everything shifted.
Alexander closed the distance in two slow steps, stopping just in front of her. Not touching. Just close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"You don't know what I've done," he murmured.
"No," she said softly. "But I know what you're doing now."
His gaze dropped to her lips for half a second—just long enough for her heart to race.
The silence stretched.
The city outside disappeared.
Slowly, carefully, Alexander lifted a hand, brushing his knuckles against her wrist. The touch was light, hesitant, as if he were giving her time to pull away.
She didn't.
Her breath caught. "Alexander…"
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly. "And I will."
She swallowed. "I don't want you to."
Something broke in his expression—not violently, but quietly. Like a crack forming in ice.
He leaned in.
Not a kiss yet. Just close enough that their foreheads nearly touched, his breath warm against her skin.
For one fragile moment, the world felt safe.
Then—
BANG.
The sound shattered the moment.
A sharp crack echoed from outside, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass splintering somewhere below.
Alexander moved instantly.
He pulled Cynthia against him and spun them away from the windows in one smooth motion, his body shielding hers.
"Down," he ordered sharply.
She dropped with him behind the kitchen island, heart pounding.
"What was that?" she whispered.
His eyes were already scanning the room. "Warning shot," he said grimly. "They're testing distance."
Her blood ran cold. "They're here?"
"Not inside," he said. "Yet."
He reached into his pocket, already dialing. "Mr. Heathcliff. Status."
A pause.
Cynthia watched his expression darken.
"Yes. I understand. Lock it down."
He ended the call and turned to her. "Someone fired from a neighboring building. They missed on purpose."
Her voice trembled. "Why?"
"To remind me," he said quietly. "That they can reach me whenever they want."
"And me?" she asked.
His jaw clenched. "To scare you."
It worked.
Alexander stood, helping her up gently. His hands lingered on her arms for a second longer than necessary, grounding her.
"You're not leaving my sight today," he said firmly.
"I wasn't planning to," she replied, trying to steady her breathing.
He guided her toward the interior hallway, away from windows. "This is why I tried to keep distance," he said. "Moments like that—" He stopped himself.
"Like what?" she asked.
"Like almost forgetting the danger," he finished.
She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw it clearly now—the weight he carried, the fear he never voiced.
"You don't have to protect me alone," she said softly.
"I do," he replied immediately.
"No," she insisted. "You choose to. And I choose to stay."
His eyes searched her face, as if expecting fear, doubt, regret.
He found none.
"Cynthia Brooks," he said quietly, "you're the most reckless person I've ever met."
She managed a shaky smile. "You haven't fired me yet."
"That's because," he said, voice low, "I'm trying not to get you killed."
She reached out without thinking and took his hand.
He didn't pull away.
The sirens outside grew louder in the distance—security responding, moving pieces into place. The threat hadn't passed. Not even close.
But neither had the moment between them.
Alexander squeezed her hand once, firmly.
"Whatever happens," he said, "stay with me. And do exactly what I say."
She nodded. "Only if you promise something too."
"What?"
"That when this is over… you won't push me away anymore."
He didn't answer right away.
Then, quietly: "If we survive this… I won't."
And for the first time since the danger began, Cynthia believed him.