EMMA

I was frozen, utterly still. Because for a split second, I let myself believe it.

Just for a moment, I let myself exist without fear, without doubt, without the crushing weight of my secrets pressing into me. And it was terrifying...

Because Jake Parker wasn't just saying he loved me. He was saying I was something he wasn't willing to lose, and that was the cruelest thing the universe could have ever given me.

My chest felt tight, like something inside me was clawing to get out. And something really was...

I should have lied, should have deflected, but I couldn't. Because I loved him too—loved him so much it was tearing me apart.

It was the truth I kept trying to outrun—the kind that lived in the quiet moments, the glances, the laughter. The kind I tried to convince myself wasn't real. But the truth was, I had been falling for him from the moment we met. And it hadn't stopped.

Each time I fell, it cut deeper, growing heavier—more consuming, more bewitching. That was what made it so dangerous. Because loving him felt like a knife lodged deep in my heart. And the second he was gone, I knew I would bleed out, until there was nothing left of me but the memory of what it felt like to be his.

But in this moment—this fragile, aching moment—I couldn't stop myself. The words slipped out before I could pull them back, before I could reach for the safety of silence or the comfort of a lie.

"I love you too, Jake."

The second the words left my mouth, his expressions turned into something raw, something breathtakingly beautiful. His eyes searched mine, like he was waiting for me to take it back, to make a joke, to hide behind some mask the way I always did.

But I didn't. Because this was the most honest thing I ever felt.

Jake's fingers brushed lightly over my cheek. There was something reverent in the way he touched me—like he was afraid I might disappear if he blinked.

And then he kissed me. Slow. Deep. Certain. Like he was trying to memorize the curve of my mouth, the way I tasted, the way I leaned into him without hesitation.

My hands gripped the front of his sweater, pulling him closer because, suddenly, nothing felt close enough. I needed him—like air, like gravity, like something I hadn't known I was missing.

I had kissed Jake before—but not like this. Not like it meant everything. Not like it was a promise. Not like it could ruin me. And God, it already was...

When we finally pulled apart, our breath lingered in the air between us—shaky, uneven, tangled in a way that made it impossible to tell where his ended and mine began. My heart was pounding so hard I was convinced he could feel it echoing in the space between our bodies.

Jake's forehead rested lightly against mine, his breath warm against my lips, his hands still holding me like he wasn't ready to let go.

"Say it again," he whispered.

I swallowed, my voice caught somewhere between fear and everything I was finally allowing myself to feel. "...I love you."

His eyes fluttered shut as if the words were something sacred—something he had been waiting to hear for longer than he wanted to admit. And when he opened them again, his gaze had softened, and there it was—his smile. The kind that stripped away all my walls, all my defenses.

"Yeah?"

I laughed softly, brushing my fingers through his hair, my heart so full it hurt. "Yeah."

He let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh of his own, then pressed a kiss to my forehead, then to my cheek. Then his mouth found mine again, kissing me in a way that didn't ask for anything but gave everything.

I let myself fall into it, let myself believe in it, if only for a little longer. Let myself hold onto him like this moment was something fragile and rare, something I didn't deserve but desperately needed to feel.

When we finally pulled apart, there was no rush, no words, just a quiet stillness that settled between us like an exhale.

Jake shifted beside me, easing me gently against him. One arm slipped around my shoulders, pulling me in. My head settled against his shoulder like it had always belonged there, and his thumb traced slow, absent circles over my arm where it rested across his chest—like he didn't even realize he was doing it. Like holding me was something his body always knew how to do.

We sat like that for a while, the silence settling gently around us—not awkward, not heavy, just... full—full of everything we couldn't name.

And the world felt too still, too perfect. Yet it pressed against something fragile inside me, something I didn't know how to shield.

The lake stretched out before us like it had no end, dark and gleaming, mirroring the stars in a way that felt almost too poetic to be real. And the night hummed softly with the sound of distant crickets.

My gaze drifted across the water, but I wasn't really seeing it. Not truly. A knot had taken root in my chest—tight, hot, unrelenting. And my throat burned with the quiet effort of not unraveling.

Because underneath all this beauty—beneath the quiet, the warmth, the comfort—there was something else. A storm was brewing inside me. A flood of feelings that didn't know where to go—joy and sorrow, love and fear, guilt and wonder, all tangled in a silence that felt too precious to disturb, like one wrong word would shatter it.

And the truth was—I was scared. Not just because I was happy. But because I was this happy.

Because this moment felt like something borrowed. Something I would have to give back. And when I did, it wouldn't leave quietly—it would take something with it. Something I knew I would never get back.

Jake shifted beside me, stretching slightly, but his arm kept holding me.

"Alright," he said, voice light, teasing—like he knew I was drifting too far inside my own head. "Let's change the rhythm."

I blinked. "Change the rhythm?"

He turned to me, giving that half-smile I had come to recognize as his favorite kind of mischief. "Yeah. Tell me something about you I don't know yet."

The question landed softly—but it threw me off guard. I blinked, still reeling from the weight of his confession—and mine. My heart hadn't quite recovered. And now he was asking for more. Just like that. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"I—" I started, then stopped, my mind scrambling to catch up with my pulse.

Jake nudged my knee gently with his. "Don't overthink it, Em. Something small. Easy. Just... something I don't know yet. Maybe a story."

I swallowed hard and turned to him, praying he couldn't see the sheer panic flickering behind my eyes. Because what Jake didn't know about me wasn't small. It wasn't harmless. What he didn't know could turn both of our lives upside down.

And if I gave him something real—something unfiltered, something not carefully wrapped in charm and safety—he might start to see it. The cracks. The truth. Me.

I took a breath, steadying myself. I knew Jake was just offering me a moment to breathe. A way to stay in this place a little longer—together, but lighter.

I picked up my abandoned champagne glass, took a slow sip, and swallowed the knot in my throat. "Okay," I said at last. "I'll tell you a story."

Jake tilted his head, curious, his fingers brushing lightly over mine in silent encouragement.

"When I was ten, I got lost at a market," I began. "We were in Marrakech, and I wandered a little too far from Eric and... my aunt and uncle."

In truth, we were there with our parents—mid-con, as always—fooling a French art dealer into believing he was about to walk away with a priceless Tangier medallion. Eric and I were just the camouflage. Carefully placed props in a picture-perfect family tableau, crafted to fool the authorities, the locals, maybe even ourselves, that we were just a normal family on vacation. Smiling. Unremarkable. Harmless.

I had no idea why my mind had landed on that story. Maybe this weekend had affected me more than I was ready to admit. Maybe it was shaking something loose I had buried deep and left untouched for years.

"It was this huge outdoor bazaar," I went on. "The kind that stretches for blocks, with stalls spilling over with jewelry, antiques, rugs, old books... chaos in every color."

"And you got lost?"

"Well, yeah," I said with a small smile, my finger circling the rim of my glass. "Though it wasn't exactly on purpose."

I paused for a breath. "I saw this little girl crying by a fruit stand. She couldn't have been more than four, clutching a small teddy bear like it was the only thing holding her together."

"And you helped her."

I nodded. "I barely spoke any Arabic then, but I still understood her. She kept repeating that she couldn't find her mom. And I knew that feeling—being that small in a world that suddenly feels too big. So I took her hand and made her understand we were on a mission. We wandered through stalls of spices and scarves until she finally spotted her mom near a spice vendor, absolutely losing it."

Jake smiled. "Let me guess—her mom gave you a medal and named a street after you."

"Close," I muttered, rolling my eyes playfully. "She handed me a mango and said I had a good heart."

Jake's smirk softened, something warm settling in his expression. "You do."

I froze. Because he was wrong. Because I didn't. Jake had only seen the parts of me I let him see—the careful edits, the version that played well under soft lighting and the illusion of trust.

"I don't know about that," I said, looking away. "I was probably just after the mango."

He laughed, but his gaze stayed on me, like he was filing that moment away—another piece of the puzzle. Another piece of me he thought he understood.

"What happened after that?"

I hesitated, then gave him the sanitized version. "Eric found me. Eventually. He was furious—lecturing me like he was thirty instead of twelve. But I could tell he'd been scared. Like... really scared. Like he thought he'd lost me."

What I didn't say—what I couldn't say—was that our parents hadn't even noticed I was gone. That they were too focused on closing the deal, on playing their marks, on making the score.

Eric was the one who noticed. Who came looking. Who always found me, no matter how lost I got.

I glanced at my phone, lying next to my glass, remembering the message he sent me earlier.

We need to talk.

A part of me ached because I really missed him. And yet another part—the part still tangled in guilt and fear—was terrified of what that conversation would bring.

"Alright, your turn," I said quickly, cutting through the silence before my thoughts could spiral. "Tell me something about you I don't know yet."

Jake raised a brow, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the blanket. "Hmm. Okay. You already know I wrote terrible poetry in high school—thanks for never letting me live that down."

I gave him a smirk, the memory still gold.

"But here's one you don't," he added, tilting his head. "I actually thought about becoming a writer."

That caught me off guard. I blinked. "Wait—seriously?"

"Yeah." He let out a quiet laugh, sheepish but sincere. "Had a whole phase where I thought I might go into journalism. Or maybe write novels."

I leaned in, curiosity sparking. "Jake Parker, aspiring novelist? Now, I need to know more about this."

"Don't get too excited," he said, chuckling as he shook his head. "It lasted all of six months. I wrote some painfully bad short stories, most of which involved brooding detectives and coffee-fueled angst. Eventually, I realized I liked solving puzzles more than creating them."

I grinned, my voice teasing. "So that's what made you trade your pen for a badge?"

He went quiet for a moment, eyes lifting to the stars. "Kind of," he said. "I was a little lost after high school. You already know the simple version—I wanted to help people like my dad, but also do something that honored my mom's love for art."

His tone softened, turning into something more reflective. "Then one day, I ended up at a guest lecture for the FBI—totally random. But something about it just... clicked." He looked back at me. "It just made sense. Justice, problem-solving, art crimes—it was all wrapped into one."

He shrugged, almost like he didn't want to make too big a deal of it. "So, I got my degree in criminal justice, minored in finance—because white-collar was the obvious choice for me even back then—and applied straight into the Academy. The rest is pretty much history."

I didn't say anything right away. But something warm bloomed in my chest. Because beneath the sharp suits and the dry wit and the measured calm of Agent Jake Parker, there was still this kid who had admired his parents so much he had shaped a life that carried pieces of them both.

And that version of him—the boy who once stood at a crossroads and chose purpose over ease—was still here, beside me, staring up at the stars like he still wondered if he had made the right call.

And yet... if he hadn't chosen this path—if he hadn't taken that guest lecture or followed that impulse—maybe I wouldn't be here with him now. I wouldn't know the way he laughed when he was surprised or the way his voice softened when he talked about the people he loved.

But still, a quiet, uninvited thought slipped into the back of my mind. If Jake had gone another way... would we have still found each other? Would there have been a version of us—untainted, unburdened, untouched by secrets? A version where I wasn't the lie hidden inside everything he believed in?

I turned to him again, taking in the lines of his face softened by starlight, the way his expression held no suspicion—just quiet affection, trust he didn't realize he was giving so freely.

And it broke something in me to know that I was the one who didn't belong in his story—not the way he thought I did.

I shook my head, looking at him with a smile I knew didn't reach my eyes, forcing a lightness into my voice. "Wow. And here I was, thinking you were one of those overachievers who had their entire life mapped out by sixteen."

Jake smirked. "Oh, I was. Had it all figured out. Thought I'd marry my high school girlfriend, write bestselling novels on the side, and live a quiet, peaceful life."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and what happened?"

"Reality," he said with a laugh. "Turns out high school relationships don't always survive, and I'm not exactly built for 'quiet.'"

I leaned into the banter, letting it steady me. "I don't know, Parker. You give off serious suburban-dad energy."

"Oh yeah?" he said, amused.

"Absolutely. I can picture it perfectly—you, coming home from work in slacks and a loosened tie, barbecue tongs in hand, wearing a 'Kiss the Cook' apron. Complaining about your lawn while listening to 'dad rock.'"

Jake laughed, shaking his head. "God, that's horrifying. Please tell me I'm at least grilling something good."

"Nah. I feel like you're a turkey burger guy."

"Emma, I swear to God—"

"With a side of gluten-free buns."

"You're done," he said, pretending to shove me away.

"Oh, and you definitely wear New Balance sneakers. The kind with the extra arch support."

"You're lucky I love you because that was just cruel."

The words made me pause again. A part of me still couldn't believe we were here—that we were at that point, where love was casual, spoken like second nature, tucked into a joke and tossed between us like it was safe.

But for Jake, it was safe. For me, it felt like walking a tightrope in the dark.

Jake didn't notice the shift—at least, not right away. He was still grinning when he said, "Well, if we ever have kids, they're definitely inheriting your sarcasm. Which is... mildly terrifying."

And just like that, I couldn't breathe. Because he wasn't just teasing anymore. He wasn't joking. He was talking about us—a future, a life together. A home, a family.

And it gutted me. Because that life didn't exist. Not for me. Not for us.

I looked at him—really looked at him. He was still smiling, his eyes so full of love. And I wanted to fold into him and break apart all at once. I wanted to confess everything. To tear down the walls, tell him the truth, the whole truth, and beg him to see me through it, to forgive me.

But I didn't.

Because I was too much of a coward. Because I loved him too much to watch his face change. Because I couldn't bear to lose this version of him—the one who looked at me like I was something good.

Instead, I opened my mouth, and something else entirely came out. "I—I have another question," I said, my voice quieter now. "What if the world ended... like right now?"

Jake blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

I looked back at the lake, trying to steady my breathing. "If this moment—right here, right now—was all we had left. What would you do?"

Jake looked thrown by the shift in conversation. His brow furrowed, eyes searching mine like he was trying to decipher what had cracked in me. But when he met my gaze, something in his expression softened again—like maybe, just maybe, he understood. Like he could see the fracture lines beneath my calm.

"I think I'd probably go out with a smile," he said at last, voice quiet but steady.

It was such a simple answer. And yet, it split something open inside me.

I swallowed hard. My lips parted, then closed again. I hadn't meant to say it. I hadn't meant to take us there. But now we were standing on the edge of something terrifyingly real, and I couldn't pretend I didn't feel it.

The way Jake looked at me just then—with that quiet certainty, like he had already decided I was his future, his always—it was the kind of look that could undo a person. And I was already standing at the edge, one breath away from falling apart completely.

"Well," I whispered, my voice catching against the lump rising in my throat, "if the world ended right now... I think I'd be happy too."

It wasn't just an answer. It was a confession in disguise. A silent prayer tucked into the breath between syllables. Because maybe that was what my subconscious had been reaching for—an ending. A quiet, beautiful end to all of it. Because if the world did stop tonight, at least I wouldn't have to face the moment Jake learned the truth. At least I would never have to watch him look at me with anything less than love.

Because God help me, I didn't know how to survive in a world where Jake Parker hated me.

His gaze didn't waver. If anything, it deepened—like he was seeing something in me that I didn't even know how to admit to myself. And then he reached out, his thumb brushing gently along my cheekbone. The touch was soft, like I was made of something precious.

"But I'd rather live more," he said. "I'd rather stay right here. And keep building a life with you."

The air was knocked out of me because Jake meant it. He wasn't saying it to fill the silence or soothe me. He wasn't the kind of man who made promises he couldn't keep. When Jake Parker said I love you, it wasn't a line. It was a vow. Every word, every breath, every heartbeat behind it was real.

And now, he was looking at me like he was already building forever around us. And that—that—was the cruelest kind of ache. Because I had never wanted anything more. And I had never deserved it less.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, blinking up at him, trying to memorize everything—every inch of his face, every tender stroke of his fingers against my skin. The way he looked at me like I was his whole damn world.

I opened my mouth, tried to speak, but nothing came out.

I wanted to tell him. God, I wanted to tell him everything.

That I loved him more than I knew how to say. That this—he—felt like the first thing in my life I hadn't wanted to run from. That I wished I could make this real, carve it out of time, and keep it untouched. That I wanted a world where I didn't have to choose between loving him and protecting him from the truth.

But I couldn't, and so I did the only thing that felt honest. I leaned in and kissed him. It wasn't careful or composed. It wasn't desperate either. It was something else entirely. A silent plea. A surrender. A confession.

Jake kissed me back—not with urgency, not with restraint, but with something that settled deep in my bones. Something steady. Solid. Unshakable. Like he was trying to anchor me to this moment, to him, like he didn't want to give me even one inch to disappear.

And then—something cold and wet landed on my cheek.

For half a second, I thought it was a tear. My own, maybe. But then another drop fell. And then another.

And suddenly, the sky broke open. Rain poured around us, soaking through my sweater, clinging to my skin, and slipping down the curve of my spine.

But I didn't move. I didn't flinch. Because Jake was still kissing me. And I was still kissing him back.

It was messy. Breathless. Reckless. Perfect.

We finally came up for air, our breaths tangled with laughter, like we couldn't believe this moment was real.

I looked up toward the storm, rain trailing down my cheeks like silver threads. "Okay," I said, my voice soft and stunned, "this is officially the most romantic movie moment of my life."

Jake chuckled, rain dripping from his lashes. "Didn't plan the rain," he said, grinning. "But I'm absolutely taking credit for it, anyway."

I laughed again, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear the storm over it.

We stayed there just for a beat longer—foreheads pressed together, eyes closed, rain slipping down our faces.

Jake then reached up, brushing a soaked strand of hair behind my ear. And then—he kissed me again. Slower this time. Softer. But no less consuming. No less devastating.

A low roll of thunder echoed across the lake, and Jake finally pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. His lips hovered close, breath warm against my rain-slick skin.

"Alright," he said, reluctant, like every word was pulling him away from something he didn't want to let go of. "Let's get out of here before we both freeze."

I nodded, smiling despite the ache in my chest. He grabbed my hand without hesitation, and we stood, soaked and shivering, but still laughing.

We ran through the rain, hand in hand, like fools. Like lovers. Like we had all the time in the world.

But deep down, I knew the truth. We didn't.

I was running out of ways to stop time. And soon—too soon—the moment would be over.

And everything would come crashing down.