I know where Everett goes on Tuesdays.
Corner of Breckman and Rosemont. An indie bookstore with a ridiculous name—"The Crooked Spine"—where the barista knows him well enough to ask if he wants oat milk or not without actually making eye contact.
He spends an hour browsing. Then he buys something he won't read, tips too much, and walks two blocks south to the little park with the cracked fountain and benches that always smell like rain, even when it hasn't rained in days.
It's routine. Predictable. Easy to shadow. Not because Everett is careless—he isn't—but because McAllister made sure he never had to look over his shoulder.
Until now.
The park is nearly empty when I spot him. He's sitting under a half-bloomed tree with a coffee in one hand and a paperback in the other. His hair curls around the edges of his hood, and his boot is tapping against the brick path like he's keeping time with some invisible melody.
I've watched him from a distance for years—brief glimpses at family functions, silent sightings at the edges of gala crowds. But this is different.
Now I have to step into his world.
Without setting it on fire.
⸻
I walk slowly. Calmly. Not too direct. Not like a threat. The trick is to appear exactly like someone he wouldn't suspect. Someone ordinary. But there's nothing ordinary about the way my heart starts to hammer the second I get close enough to see the flecks of green in his eyes.
He doesn't notice me until I sit on the bench a few feet away.
I give it three seconds.
Then, "You always pick the bench closest to the fountain."
He looks up, startled, eyes narrowing.
"Sorry?"
I turn toward him slightly, keeping my posture open, relaxed. "I've seen you here before. I figured you must like the sound of the water."
He stares at me, guarded now. Good. He's cautious. He should be.
"I don't think I know you," he says.
"You don't." I smile. "But I know your father."
That makes him sit up straighter. "What?"
"McAllister Knight. He and I have worked together."
His eyes sharpen instantly. I can practically see the wall rising. "You're in... business with him?"
"In a manner of speaking," I say lightly. "He asked me to check in on you."
"Why?"
I pause.
This part has to be precise. No lies. Just not the whole truth.
"He had a health scare a few days ago," I say. "And though he's recovering, it made him realize you might need someone nearby. In case things get... complicated."
"I don't need a babysitter," he snaps.
His voice is sharper than I expected. Defensive, angry—but beneath that, there's something else. Fear.
"I'm not a babysitter," I reply. "I'm a safeguard."
He scoffs. "That's a nice word for bodyguard."
I let the corner of my mouth twitch. "He didn't want to tell you everything. He said you'd resist."
"Of course I would," he mutters. "I'm not some helpless kid."
"No. You're not."
His head snaps up at that, surprised by the agreement.
"You're smart," I continue. "Stubborn. You've survived this long without stepping a single toe into your father's world. That's impressive. But... things are shifting. And your last name—whether you use it or not—carries weight. And danger."
He watches me now. Really watches. Trying to figure me out.
"You know a lot about me," he says slowly.
"I was instructed to."
"That's creepy."
"I won't deny it."
Another pause.
Everett closes the book he wasn't reading and sets his coffee down beside him.
"You still haven't told me your name."
"Killian Lancaster."
His brows lift. "As in Lancaster-Lancaster?"
"Yes."
He whistles low. "Wow. My dad must really be desperate."
I almost laugh. Almost.
"He's not desperate," I say. "He's just... finally accepting that he can't outrun time. Or threats."
Everett looks away, his gaze drifting across the empty park.
"I didn't think he'd actually go this far," he murmurs. "Bringing someone into my life like this."
"He cares about you," I say. "Even if he has a hell of a way of showing it."
That draws a breath from him. Not a laugh—but close.
He glances back. "So what now? You follow me around? Wait outside my apartment with a headset and a black SUV?"
"If that's what it takes."
"Subtle."
"I can be subtle."
He studies me for a long beat.
"You're serious about this," he says.
"I'm serious about you," I say carefully. "About keeping you safe."
The words hang in the air between us. I don't move. I don't breathe. I just watch.
He looks away again, and for the first time, I see it—under the sarcasm and the resistance—he's scared.
"Things don't feel normal anymore," he says quietly. "My dad won't tell me what's going on, but I know something's coming. I can feel it."
"You're right," I say. "Something is coming. And when it does, you'll be glad I'm here."
He nods slowly. His fingers drum against the spine of the book. Then:
"You're not moving in with me."
I smirk. "Wouldn't dream of it."
"And don't get too comfortable. This isn't permanent."
"Nothing is."
He glances at me sideways. "Why do I feel like you're enjoying this?"
I stand, smoothing out my coat. "Because I am."
"Of course you are."
He says it with a roll of his eyes, but there's no bite. No venom.
I step back, careful not to push.
"I'll be around," I say. "You won't always see me. But if something happens—you call me. First."
He narrows his eyes. "You already have my number, don't you?"
I wink. "You really don't want the answer to that."
⸻
I walk away with the rain beginning to fall again, light and slow. Behind me, I hear the flutter of pages as he opens his book again.
But he doesn't read it.
He's watching me walk away.
And for the first time in eleven years, I'm not just a shadow at the edge of Everett Knight's life.
I'm in it.
And I don't plan on leaving.