The night after the rooftop, Amelia couldn't sleep.
She tried everything. A glass of wine. A cold shower. A journal entry. But Dominic's sudden departure haunted her in fragments—his mouth on hers, the way his phone buzzed, and that look in his eyes before he left.
It wasn't fear.
It was something worse.
Anticipation.
Like he'd been waiting for that message all night.
She wanted to forget it. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. But a truth had already settled inside her like a splinter:
Dominic wasn't just complicated. He was dangerous.
By morning, she made a decision.
She'd find out who he really was—even if it meant breaking a few rules. She called Darren, a quiet contact from her brief stint as a freelance copy researcher. He owed her a favor for helping clean up a scandalous exposé before it went to print.
"I need a name checked," she said.
"Send what you've got."
She sent the old photo. The reverse-image link. And the name D. Grayson.
A moment passed.
Then two.
Then a reply:
"This is... sensitive. You sure you want this?"
Yes.
That evening, the doorbell rang.
She didn't expect anyone—certainly not Dominic.
But it was him. Dressed in civilian clothes this time—denim, leather, and shadows. No charm tonight. No smirk.
He looked like he hadn't slept either.
"I owe you answers," he said.
"You think?"
He stepped in without waiting for her permission.
She folded her arms. "You could've just texted."
"I wanted to say it to your face."
"Say what? That you disappear when things get intense? That you've got women like Vivienne sniffing blood in the water? Or maybe that you're hiding an identity the internet says doesn't exist?"
He stood silently for a long time. Then, slowly, he pulled something out of his back pocket.
A folded file.
Black and unmarked.
He placed it on her counter.
"I want you to read this. But I need you to understand—there are things I can't tell you outright. Things I signed away the right to say."
She hesitated.
"Is this a mind game, Dominic?"
He stepped closer. His voice low. "If I wanted to play games, Amelia, I'd keep sleeping with you and never tell you anything. I'm trying to stop myself from becoming exactly the man you should run from."
She blinked, caught off guard by the rawness in his voice.
She picked up the file and opened it.
The first page was a military form. Name redacted. But there was a photo—Dominic in uniform. A date. A location: Syria. 2015.
Page after page of mission reports, coded operations, psychological assessments. One headline made her blood still:
"Civilian Asset Extraction, Target: Rafiq Zahid. Operative: D. Grayson (Undercover - Phoenix Protocol)."
"What is this?" she whispered.
Dominic sighed. "My past. Parts of it."
She flipped through more—clipped articles, maps, even a grainy photo of him in what looked like a hostage camp.
"You were undercover?"
He nodded.
"Are you still working for them?"
Silence.
That was her answer.
Amelia shut the file.
Her pulse was a drumbeat now. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because someone from that world is coming back. Someone I thought was dead.
Someone I left behind."
Her voice dropped. "Are you in danger?"
"No. But you might be."
She stared at him, searching for a lie in his eyes. But what she saw there chilled her.
Fear. Not for himself—but for her.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"His name was Zahir. But he goes by different names now. We crossed paths when I was undercover. He doesn't forget betrayal."
"You betrayed him?"
"I saved a little girl his men were using to smuggle intel. I blew his network to hell.
Thought he burned with it."
"And now?"
"I think he found me. And you might be part of how he plans to hurt me back."
The room was too quiet.
Amelia whispered, "Why me?"
"Because he knows what it's like to lose someone. He knows the cost of love."
That word hung in the air like smoke.
Love.
He hadn't said it directly, but it echoed louder than anything else he could have uttered.
She didn't know what to say. Her body was still processing fear. Her heart—something else entirely.
Dominic reached for her hand.
"I'll understand if you want to walk away now. I really will."
She looked down at their joined hands. His calloused fingers. The tremor in his touch.
And she realized something terrifying and true.
She didn't want to walk away.
Not because she wasn't afraid.
But because she was already in too deep.
She stepped into him, slowly, deliberately, and wrapped her arms around his waist.
"If he's coming, then we fight him. Together."
Dominic froze. Then held her so tight, it hurt.
Not like a lover. Like a man clinging to the last good thing in a burning world.
He kissed her like it might be their last.
And when their clothes hit the floor this time, it wasn't rushed.
It was reverent.
Every touch was deliberate. Every sigh drawn from somewhere deeper. When he pushed into her, it wasn't about pleasure.
It was a promise.
And when they lay tangled in the aftermath, skin to skin, heart to heart, Amelia knew the truth.
She wasn't falling for Dominic anymore.
She already had.