Castle ran.
To his credit, the writer didn't hesitate, didn't ask questions—just bolted for the Mustang like I'd told him to. I was right behind him, already calculating angles, distances, threat assessments with the cold precision that came from years of training under Major Reacher.
The SUV's engine roared, and I heard the distinctive *chunk* of automatic locks disengaging.
Doors opening. Multiple targets.
I got Castle to the Mustang, shoved him toward the driver's side. "Get in, stay low, engine on. If I tell you to drive, you drive. Understand?"
"But—"
"*Understand?*"
"Yes!"
I turned back toward the storage unit just as three men emerged from the SUV—all armed, all moving with the practiced coordination of professionals. Not amateurs. Not street thugs. These were operators.
The lead man raised a pistol—aiming not at me, but at the cluster of people near the storage unit. At Beckett. At Neal. At everyone standing around millions of dollars in stolen art.
Time slowed. Not literally—that only happened in movies—but Reacher had taught me how to process information faster than my conscious mind could follow. How to make decisions in the space between heartbeats.
Distance from me to the shooter: approximately forty feet.
Distance from shooter to the targets: sixty feet.
Time to draw my Glock: 1.2 seconds.
Time for the shooter to acquire a target and fire: maybe 2 seconds if he was good.
Not enough time.
Unless.
I moved.
Not toward my gun. Toward the nearest object—a metal hand truck leaning against the storage facility wall, left there by the CSU techs. I grabbed it in one fluid motion, my body already pivoting, weight transferring through my hips and core exactly the way Reacher had drilled into me a thousand times. *Use what's available. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.*
The hand truck weighed maybe thirty pounds. In my hands, powered by momentum and every ounce of strength Frank Martin's training had built, it became a missile.
I threw it.
Not at the shooter—he was too far, too alert. At the SUV's windshield.
The hand truck hit with the sound of breaking glass and crunching metal, and the driver—still behind the wheel—flinched back as spiderwebbed cracks bloomed across his field of vision.
The distraction bought me the seconds I needed.
I drew the Glock from my ankle holster, bringing it up in a smooth arc that felt like muscle memory because it *was* muscle memory. Stance automatically perfect—feet shoulder-width, knees slightly bent, weight forward. Two-handed grip, arms extended but not locked. Sight picture acquired.
"DROP THE WEAPON!" I roared, my voice carrying across the parking lot with the kind of command presence that made privates snap to attention and smart people reconsider their life choices.
The lead shooter spun toward me, bringing his pistol around.
Wrong move.
I fired twice—center mass, exactly where Frank Martin's countless hours of training said to aim. The double-tap was so smooth it sounded almost like one extended shot.
The man went down.
His two companions scattered—one diving behind the SUV, the other moving toward the cover of a parked car. Both had weapons up now, both looking for targets.
Behind me, I heard Castle yelp. Behind them, chaos erupted—cops shouting, people moving, Burke's voice calling for backup.
The shooter behind the SUV leaned out, bringing his weapon to bear.
I was already moving, cutting left toward a concrete support pillar because standing still in a gunfight was a good way to die. The shooter fired—three quick shots that went wide as I reached cover.
Concrete exploded inches from my head, dust and chips peppering my face.
I leaned out from the opposite side of the pillar and fired three times in rapid succession. The windshield shooting had taught me something about their vehicle—armored glass, probably armored doors too. Expensive. Professional.
But the tires weren't armored.
My rounds punched through the front tire with satisfying explosions of rubber. The SUV lurched, settling onto its rim.
The second shooter—the one behind the parked car—was moving, trying to flank. Coming around to get an angle on the people near the storage unit.
Where Neal was.
Rage flooded through me, cold and focused. That was my brother in that line of fire.
I came out from behind the pillar in a dead run, closing the distance with the kind of speed that came from having a body that actually worked, that responded to every command without pain or hesitation. The shooter saw me coming, tried to adjust his aim.
Too slow.
I was on him before he could fire, my left hand grabbing his gun wrist and pushing it up and away—Reacher's disarm, practiced until it was instinct. My right hand still held my Glock, but at this range I couldn't risk a shot with civilians in the background.
So I improvised.
I slammed the Glock into the side of his head—not shooting, just using it as a blunt instrument. The impact made a sound like a baseball bat hitting a melon, and the shooter's eyes rolled back. He dropped, unconscious before he hit the pavement.
Behind me, the third shooter—the one behind the SUV—was moving, coming around to get a clear shot.
I spun, bringing my Glock up, but someone else fired first.
Burke, positioned near the storage unit entrance, double-tapped the shooter with the calm precision of a federal agent who'd done this before. The man went down hard.
Silence fell across the parking lot—that eerie quiet that came after gunfire, when your ears were ringing and your brain was still processing whether you were alive or dead.
I stood there, Glock still raised, adrenaline flooding my system, waiting for another threat.
None came.
"CLEAR!" Burke shouted, his weapon still up, scanning for additional shooters.
"CLEAR!" Esposito echoed from near the storage unit.
"CLEAR!" Ryan called from behind a CSU van.
I lowered my weapon but didn't holster it. Not yet. Not until I was sure.
Beckett emerged from cover behind a concrete barrier, her service weapon drawn, eyes scanning the scene with the kind of controlled intensity that came from training and experience. She took in the downed shooters, the damaged SUV, and me standing in the middle of the parking lot.
"Bennett," she said, her voice carefully controlled, "are you hit?"
I did a quick assessment—no pain beyond some scraped knuckles and a cut on my cheek from the concrete shrapnel. "No. I'm good."
"Castle?"
I turned to look at the Mustang. Castle was visible through the windshield, white-faced but unharmed, still in the driver's seat with the engine running just like I'd told him.
"He's fine."
"Neal?" I called out, my voice rougher than I intended.
My brother emerged from behind the Crown Vic, pale but steady. "I'm okay. Jesus, Frank—"
"Stay down until we're sure it's clear," Burke ordered, cutting off whatever Neal was about to say.
Sirens wailed in the distance—backup responding to the shots fired call that someone must have already made.
Burke approached the downed shooters, weapon still drawn, kicking away their guns with practiced efficiency. "This one's dead," he said, checking the man I'd shot. "This one's unconscious but breathing." That was the one I'd pistol-whipped. "And this one..." He checked the third, the one he'd shot. "Also dead."
"Two dead, one in custody," Beckett said, moving to join him. She looked at me again, and something in her expression had changed. "That was some impressive shooting, Bennett."
"Special Investigations training." I finally holstered my Glock, my hands steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through me. "Major Reacher didn't accept mediocrity."
"No shit," Esposito muttered, emerging from cover. He was staring at me like he was seeing me for the first time. "Bro, you just went full action hero on these guys."
"I did my job."
"Your job is protecting Castle, not taking down armed assailants like you're auditioning for *Die Hard*," Ryan pointed out, but he was grinning. "Though I gotta say, that hand truck throw was inspired."
"Use what's available," I said, echoing Reacher's favorite lesson.
Neal reached me first, grabbing my arm and pulling me around to face him. His eyes were wide, intense, searching for injuries. "You could have been killed."
"But I wasn't."
"Frank—"
"You were in the line of fire," I said quietly, so only he could hear. "What did you expect me to do?"
Something flickered across Neal's face—gratitude, exasperation, and that complicated mix of emotions that came with having a brother who'd just risked his life for you. "Not get shot, preferably."
"I'll add it to the list for next time."
"There better not be a next time."
Burke approached, holstering his weapon. "Bennett, I'm going to need a statement. Full accounting of what happened, every shot fired."
"Of course."
"And for the record?" Burke's expression was serious but not hostile. "That was good work. Professional. Clean. You probably saved lives."
"Just doing what I was trained to do, Agent Burke."
"Yeah, well, your training is impressive as hell." He turned to survey the scene—the damaged SUV, the downed shooters, the chaos of the parking lot. "Someone really didn't want us looking in that storage unit."
"Which means we're on the right track," Beckett said. She was already pulling out her phone, presumably to call Montgomery. "This just became a lot bigger than a simple homicide."
Castle emerged from the Mustang on shaky legs, looking at me like I'd just sprouted wings. "That was... you just..."
"Get back in the car, Castle," I said, gentler this time. "We're going to be here for a while."
"You threw a hand truck at a car."
"Yes."
"And then you shot a guy."
"Two guys. Technically."
"And then you ran at an armed assailant and just... took his gun away?"
"It's called a disarm technique. They teach it in the military."
"They teach you to be a *superhero* in the military?"
Despite everything—the adrenaline, the dead bodies, the ringing in my ears—I almost laughed. "No, Castle. They teach you to survive. Everything else is just application."
But as I stood there, surrounded by cops and federal agents and my twin brother who'd chosen crime while I'd chosen service, I couldn't help but think about ROB's parting words.
*Try not to waste it.*
I hadn't wasted it today. I'd protected people. Done my job. Been the hero I'd always wanted to be in my first life.
But something told me this was just the beginning.
And it was definitely going to get more complicated.
—
Three hours later, I was finally cleared to leave the scene.
Three hours of statements, evidence collection, ballistics review, and being photographed from every angle by CSU while Burke and Beckett coordinated with their respective bosses. The unconscious shooter—identified as Viktor Markov, a Russian national with a record of enforcement work for various criminal organizations—was in custody at a hospital with a concussion and a federal guard on his door.
The two dead shooters were being processed by the ME's office. Their SUV was being torn apart by forensics. And the storage unit full of stolen art was now a federal crime scene with enough guards to protect Fort Knox.
Montgomery had shown up personally, taken one look at the scene, and given me a look that said he wasn't sure if he should thank me or arrest me. He'd settled for a gruff "Good work, Bennett" before pulling Beckett aside for a heated conversation I pretended not to overhear.
Castle, to his credit, had handled the whole thing remarkably well. After the initial shock wore off, he'd spent the time observing, taking mental notes, and asking surprisingly insightful questions about tactical response and threat assessment. The writer in him was already turning this into a story.
Neal had been more complicated. He'd stayed close, watching me with that concerned older brother expression—despite the fact that we were twins, he'd been born twelve minutes earlier and never let me forget it—like he was waiting for delayed shock to hit.
It hadn't. Reacher had trained that out of me years ago.
By the time Burke finally said I could go, the sun was setting and my phone had accumulated seventeen texts from Elizabeth.
I checked them as Castle and I walked back to the Mustang:
*News is reporting shots fired at a storage facility in Queens. Please tell me you're not involved.*
*Ryan just called me. You ARE involved. Of course you are.*
*Are you hurt?*
*FRANK BENNETT ANSWER YOUR PHONE*
*Burke's office confirmed you're fine. Why aren't you answering?*
*Because you're giving statements. Right. Logical. I'm being irrational.*
*Call me when you're clear.*
*I'm ordering Thai food. The spicy kind you like.*
*And buying whipped cream.*
*Also that lingerie you mentioned you liked last month.*
*This is not a reward. This is stress relief. There's a difference.*
*Okay it's absolutely a reward. You threw a HAND TRUCK at armed gunmen.*
*Call me. Please.*
The last text had been sent fifteen minutes ago: *I'm at your place. The door's unlocked. Get home safe.*
I showed the texts to Castle as we reached the Mustang.
He read them, his eyebrows climbing higher with each message. "Your business partner is... enthusiastic about your survival."
"Elizabeth has a flair for the dramatic."
"Elizabeth has a thing for you."
"We have an arrangement."
"An arrangement that involves lingerie and whipped cream." Castle grinned. "That's not an arrangement, Frank. That's a relationship with commitment issues."
"Says the man who writes murder mysteries for a living instead of dealing with his own emotional complexity."
"Touché." He climbed into the passenger seat. "But seriously—she sounds worried. You should call her."
I started the engine, the familiar rumble somehow soothing after the chaos of the day, and dialed Elizabeth's number through the car's Bluetooth system.
She picked up before the first ring finished. "Frank."
"Hey."
"Don't 'hey' me. You got shot at."
"Technically, they shot *at* me. They didn't hit me. There's a difference."
"I'm going to kill you myself," she said, but her voice was shaking slightly. "You're okay? Really okay?"
"Really okay. Not a scratch beyond some concrete dust and bruised knuckles." I pulled out of the parking lot, following the taillights of Beckett's Crown Vic toward Manhattan. "Ryan told you what happened?"
"He gave me the highlights. Something about you going full Jason Statham on three armed assailants?" Elizabeth's voice had steadied, shifting back toward her normal composed tone. "I believe his exact words were 'your boy is terrifying in the best possible way.'"
Castle snorted. "That's accurate."
"Is that Castle?" Elizabeth asked.
"In the flesh. Frank's giving me a ride back to the precinct."
"Mr. Castle, your security consultant just prevented what could have been a massacre. I expect a substantial bonus in next month's retainer."
"Already planning to double it," Castle said cheerfully. "Combat pay seems appropriate."
"Triple it. Frank deserves hazard pay for dealing with you."
"I'm right here," I pointed out. "Stop negotiating my salary without me."
"That's what business partners do, darling." Elizabeth's tone had shifted again—still concerned, but now with that edge of predatory satisfaction that appeared when she'd won a negotiation. "Now get home. I have plans for you."
"The Thai food kind of plans or the other kind?"
"Both. Simultaneously if we're creative enough."
Castle made a choking sound.
"I'm hanging up now," I said.
"Drive safe. And Frank?" Elizabeth's voice softened. "I'm glad you're okay."
"Me too."
I disconnected, and Castle stared at me. "You two are fascinating."
"We're practical."
"You're something, but I don't think practical is the word." He settled back in his seat as we merged onto the highway. "So what happens now? With the investigation, I mean."
"Burke and Beckett coordinate. The FBI takes lead on the art theft angle, NYPD maintains primary on the homicide. We're looking at a sophisticated operation—professional theft, international connections, enough money to hire Russian enforcers." I changed lanes smoothly, navigating the early evening traffic. "And someone was worried enough about us finding that storage unit to try to kill us all."
"Which means we're getting close to something important."
"Or someone important doesn't want to be found."
Castle pulled out his phone, presumably to take notes. "The art in that storage unit—Neal said some of it had been missing for months. Years, even. We're talking about a long-running operation, not some opportunistic thieves."
"Agreed. And Marcus Sheldon was just a logistics guy. Small fish." I thought about the scene, about the professional way those shooters had moved. "The people running this operation? They're organized, well-funded, and willing to kill to protect their interests."
"So how do we find them?"
"We don't. That's Beckett's job, and Burke's job, and technically Neal's job since he's a consultant." I glanced at Castle. "We stay out of the way and keep you from getting shot."
"But you're good at this. The investigating, I mean. I saw the way you were looking at that storage unit—you were cataloging details just like Kate does."
"Observing isn't the same as investigating."
"Isn't it though?" Castle studied me with that writer's intensity that suggested he was seeing past my carefully maintained exterior. "You were Special Investigations. That's literally investigating. You have skills, training, instincts that could help solve this case."
"And I also have a job. Which is protecting you."
"What if those two things overlap?"
I didn't answer immediately, navigating through a complicated interchange while considering how to explain this without sounding like I was reciting regulations. "Castle, I know what I'm capable of. I know I could probably help Beckett solve this case faster. But that's not why I'm here. The moment I start acting like an investigator instead of your security consultant, I cross a line. Montgomery made that very clear."
"Even if people's lives are at stake?"
"Especially then. Because if I overstep and compromise the investigation, any evidence I find becomes questionable. Any arrests become vulnerable to challenge. I help more by staying in my lane and doing my actual job."
Castle was quiet for a moment. "That's very mature and professional."
"Thank you."
"I hate it. It's boring. You should totally go rogue and solve crimes."
"I'm not going rogue."
"But you'd be so good at it."
"Castle—"
"Fine, fine. You're the responsible one. I'll just have to live vicariously through watching Kate work." He went back to his phone, typing rapidly. "Though for the record, if we accidentally stumble across important clues while you're busy protecting me, I'm not going to feel bad about mentioning them."
"Accidentally stumbling across clues isn't a thing."
"It is in my novels."
"Your novels aren't real life."
"They could be. With the right encouragement."
I couldn't help but smile. Castle was exhausting, yes, but he was also genuinely enthusiastic about everything. It was almost refreshing after years of military cynicism and Elizabeth's calculated pragmatism.
We pulled up to the precinct just as Beckett's Crown Vic was parking. Ryan and Esposito emerged, both looking tired but wired—that post-incident energy that came from surviving something dangerous.
Neal and Burke's sedan was already there, parked in a visitor's spot.
"You want me to wait?" I asked Castle as he unbuckled.
"Nah, I'll catch a ride with Kate or grab a cab. You should get home to Elizabeth and her... plans." He grinned. "Thanks for saving my life today, by the way. I know I joked about it, but seriously—thank you."
"That's the job."
"Still. You're good at it." He climbed out, then leaned back in. "And Frank? Whatever Elizabeth has planned? You earned it."
He shut the door before I could respond, heading into the precinct with a wave.
I sat there for a moment, engine idling, watching him disappear inside. Then I pulled out my phone and texted Elizabeth:
*On my way. ETA twenty minutes.*
Her response was immediate: *The door's unlocked. Clothes optional.*
I put the Mustang in gear and headed home, trying not to think about how good this day had felt despite the violence. How right it felt to use my training for something that mattered. How much I'd missed this—the action, the purpose, the feeling of making a difference.
ROB had given me a second chance at being a hero.
Today, I'd actually felt like one.
---
Elizabeth's apartment—technically mine was next door, but we'd long since stopped pretending we maintained separate spaces—was dimly lit when I arrived. Candles on the kitchen counter, soft jazz playing from her expensive sound system, and the smell of Thai food mixing with something sweeter.
She was in the kitchen, wearing that black silk robe I'd bought her for her birthday and nothing else as far as I could tell. Her red hair was down, falling past her shoulders, and she had a glass of wine in one hand.
"Frank Bennett," she said, looking me over with clinical appreciation. "You look like you've been through a war zone."
"Just a parking lot firefight. Much less dramatic."
"Liar. Ryan said you threw improvised weapons and disarmed an assailant with your bare hands."
"Ryan talks too much."
"Ryan appreciates competence when he sees it." She set down her wine and crossed to me, her hands immediately going to my jacket, checking for injuries with the kind of thorough efficiency that came from years of risk assessment. "You're sure you're not hurt?"
"I'm sure."
Her hands stilled on my chest, and she looked up at me with those sharp green eyes. "You scared me today."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be careful." She pulled me down into a kiss that was somehow both gentle and possessive, claiming and checking at the same time. When she pulled back, her smile had returned. "Now get cleaned up. Dinner's getting cold, and I have plans for dessert."
"The whipped cream kind?"
"Among other things." Her smile turned wicked. "Consider it positive reinforcement for staying alive."
I headed for the shower, stripping off clothes that smelled like gunpowder and adrenaline, and let the hot water wash away the last of the tension. By the time I emerged—wearing just sweatpants because Elizabeth had said clothes were optional—she had food laid out on the coffee table and was curled up on the couch with her wine.
"So," she said as I settled beside her, "tell me everything."
And I did. Between bites of pad thai and red curry, I walked her through the whole day—meeting Castle's family, the precinct, the storage unit, the shooting. Elizabeth listened with the focus she usually reserved for corporate negotiations, occasionally asking sharp questions that proved she was thinking three steps ahead.
"Russian enforcers," she said when I finished. "That's high-level organized crime."
"Burke thinks it's an international operation."
"He's probably right. And if they're willing to kill cops and federal agents in broad daylight..." She trailed off, but I knew what she was thinking.
"They'll try again."
"They'll try again," she confirmed. "Which means Castle is in more danger than we initially assessed."
"I know."
"Which means you're in more danger."
"Also know that."
She studied me for a long moment. "You're not going to walk away from this, are you?"
"Would you?"
"No. But I'm pragmatic enough to admit when a job becomes too risky." She traced a finger along my jaw. "You, on the other hand, have a hero complex the size of Manhattan."
"Neal said the same thing."
"Your brother is smarter than he looks."
"I'll tell him you said that."
"Please don't. His ego is already insufferable." She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. "But since you're determined to keep playing bodyguard to a mystery writer who attracts murders like a magnet..."
"Yes?"
"I'm going to make sure you have every reason to come home safe." Her hand slid down my chest, nails dragging lightly. "Starting right now."
The Thai food was forgotten.
The investigation could wait until morning.
Tonight was about being alive, being with someone who understood me, and proving that Frank Bennett—former Michael Chen, reincarnated with the skills of three fictional badasses—had definitely made the most of his second chance.
At least in some areas.
—
The candles had burned down to stubs, the jazz had shifted to something slow and bluesy, and Elizabeth was tracing lazy patterns on my chest with her fingernails—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep me present in the moment.
We'd migrated from the couch to her bed somewhere around midnight, and now it was pushing two AM. The whipped cream had been involved. So had the lingerie, though it hadn't stayed on long. Elizabeth approached sex the same way she approached business negotiations—with complete focus, clear objectives, and a willingness to be creative to achieve optimal results.
I was still catching my breath.
"You know," she said quietly, her head resting on my shoulder, "most men would be asleep by now."
"Most men didn't spend the day in a firefight."
"True." Her fingers stilled against my chest. "You're still wired."
"Little bit."
"Want to talk about it?"
I considered that. Elizabeth and I had an arrangement—friends with benefits, business partners, neighbors who'd somehow become each other's default emergency contact. We didn't do feelings. We didn't do deep emotional conversations. We kept things simple, practical, mutually beneficial.
Except lately, it had been feeling less simple and more like something neither of us wanted to name.
"I killed two people today," I said finally.
"You defended yourself and others from armed assailants. There's a difference."
"Legally, yes. Practically..." I stared at the ceiling, watching shadows from the dying candles dance across the plaster. "It's not the first time I've killed someone. Won't be the last, probably. But it never gets easier."
"It shouldn't get easier." Elizabeth shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me. Her red hair fell across her shoulder, and in the dim light she looked younger, softer than her usual corporate armor allowed. "The moment it becomes easy is the moment you've lost something important."
"That's surprisingly philosophical for two in the morning."
"I contain multitudes." She studied my face with that analytical intensity that had probably made her a fortune in corporate consulting. "But you're not just processing the shooting. Something else is bothering you."
Of course she'd noticed. Elizabeth noticed everything.
"Castle asked me why I'm not helping with the actual investigation," I said. "He pointed out that I have the skills, the training, the experience. That I could probably help Beckett solve this case faster."
"And you told him no because you have professional boundaries and respect the chain of command."
"Yes."
"But you wanted to say yes."
It wasn't a question. I sighed. "Yeah. I wanted to say yes."
Elizabeth was quiet for a moment, her fingers resuming their patterns on my chest—concentric circles that somehow helped me think. "Frank, can I ask you something? And I want you to be honest with me."
"Always am with you."
"Why did you really take this job?" She held up a hand before I could answer. "And don't give me the line about Castle being a high-profile client with good money. You've turned down better-paying gigs. So why this one?"
I thought about how to answer that without revealing things I couldn't explain. Like ROB. Like reincarnation. Like the fact that I knew Richard Castle was a fictional character and I was living in a world where TV shows were real.
"Because I was bored," I said finally, and it was true even if it wasn't the whole truth. "Security consulting is fine—we do good work, we help people. But most of it is risk assessment and threat analysis. Paperwork. Contingency planning. Important, but..."
"But you miss the action."
"I miss feeling like I'm making a difference in real time. Not preventing problems that might never happen, but actually being there when it matters." I turned to look at her. "Today, in that parking lot? That felt right. Like I was doing what I was meant to do."
Elizabeth's expression was unreadable. "That's what I was afraid of."
"What do you mean?"
"Frank, you're brilliant at what we do. You're thorough, professional, and clients love you because you make them feel safe. But you're not satisfied with it." She sat up fully, pulling the sheet around her shoulders. "And I've been watching it eat at you for months."
"I haven't said anything—"
"You don't have to say anything. I know you." She looked away, staring at the wall where the shadows continued their slow dance. "You want to be out there, solving crimes, stopping bad guys, being the hero. Not sitting in boardrooms talking about evacuation protocols and cybersecurity."
"The work we do is important."
"I know it is. But it's not what you want to be doing." She turned back to me, and there was something vulnerable in her expression that I rarely saw. "And I'm afraid that if you keep taking jobs like this one with Castle, eventually you're going to realize you don't want to be a security consultant anymore."
"Liz—"
"Let me finish." She took a breath. "We built this company together. We're good at it. We make excellent money, we help people, we have a reputation for being the best at what we do. But it only works because we're partners—both of us committed, both of us focused. If you're spending your time playing bodyguard-slash-detective for mystery writers..."
"It affects the business," I finished.
"It affects us," she corrected quietly. "The business, yes. But also this." She gestured between us. "Whatever this is."
There it was. The conversation we'd been avoiding for months. The acknowledgment that somewhere along the way, "friends with benefits" had evolved into something more complicated.
"What is this?" I asked. "For you, I mean. Honestly."
Elizabeth laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Honestly? I have no idea. I'm not good at relationships, Frank. I'm good at contracts and negotiations and clearly defined boundaries. What we have—what we've had—it's worked because we both agreed it wasn't serious."
"But it feels serious now."
"It feels serious now," she agreed. "At least for me. Which is terrifying because I don't do serious. I do practical. I do mutually beneficial. I don't do... this." She waved her hand vaguely, encompassing the bed, the apartment, us.
I sat up, taking her hand in mine. Her fingers were cold despite the warmth of the room. "Elizabeth, I'm not going anywhere. The job with Castle is temporary—a few months at most. Then I'm back to full-time consulting with you."
"Are you though?" She met my eyes. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've found something you're passionate about again. And I'm not selfish enough to ask you to give that up for a business partnership and convenient sex."
"It's not just convenient sex."
"Isn't it?"
"No." I squeezed her hand. "Liz, you're my best friend. You're the person I trust most in the world. Yes, we have amazing sex and yes, we work great together professionally. But it's more than that. You know me better than anyone, including my brother. You've seen me at my worst and you still choose to be around me."
"Because you're useful and attractive," she said, but her voice shook slightly.
"Because we fit," I corrected. "In all the ways that matter. We challenge each other. We make each other better. We understand each other's damage and we don't try to fix it, we just... exist with it."
Elizabeth was quiet for a long moment. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me, and it's basically 'we're both emotionally unavailable but functional together.'"
"We contain multitudes," I said, echoing her earlier words.
She almost smiled. "We really do." She shifted closer, resting her forehead against mine. "I'm scared, Frank. I'm scared that you're going to realize you want to be out there saving the world instead of sitting in board rooms with me. I'm scared that this thing with Castle is going to change you. And I'm really scared that I care this much about it."
"Hey." I cupped her face in my hands. "I'm not going anywhere. Yes, I miss the action. Yes, today felt good in a way that boardrooms don't. But you know what I thought about in that parking lot when bullets were flying?"
"What?"
"Getting home to you. Making sure I survived so I could have this—" I gestured around the room, "—whatever this is. Because whatever it is, Liz, I don't want to lose it."
She kissed me then, soft and slow and different from the passion earlier. This was vulnerability, trust, the acknowledgment that we were both terrified of whatever was happening between us but willing to see it through anyway.
When she pulled back, her eyes were wet. "I hate that you make me feel things."
"I know."
"And I hate that you're probably going to get shot at again."
"Probably."
"And I really hate that I'm going to spend every day you're with Castle worrying about whether you're coming home."
"I will always come home, Liz. That's a promise."
She studied my face, looking for the lie, the doubt. She wouldn't find it. Because it was true—whatever happened with Castle, with the investigation, with the dangerous world I was walking back into, I would make sure I came home to her.
"Okay," she said finally. "Okay. We'll figure this out. The business, us, whatever this is becoming. We'll figure it out like we figure everything else out."
"Together."
"Together." She settled back against my chest, her arm draped across my stomach. "But Frank?"
"Yeah?"
"If you die on me, I'm going to be extremely pissed off. And I'll find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself."
I laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Noted."
We lay there in the darkness, listening to the city sounds outside—sirens in the distance, late-night traffic, the ambient noise of Manhattan that never really slept. The candles finally guttered out, leaving us in shadow.
"Frank?" Elizabeth's voice was drowsy now, sleep finally catching up with her.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for not dying today."
"Thank you for the lingerie and whipped cream."
She pinched my side. "Priorities."
"Always."
She fell asleep first, her breathing evening out into the slow rhythm I'd learned meant she was truly relaxed. I stayed awake a while longer, staring at the ceiling and thinking about second chances, about the life I'd been given, about the choices I was making.
In my first life, I'd been Michael Chen—weak, dying, never having really lived.
In this life, I was Frank Bennett—strong, capable, with skills that made me dangerous and a job that put me in harm's way.
But I was also here, in this bed, with a woman who scared me and challenged me and made me want to be better. With a business I'd built, a brother I loved despite our differences, and a purpose that finally felt right.
ROB had told me not to waste this second chance.
I wasn't planning to.
Even if it meant navigating complicated feelings, dangerous cases, and whatever chaos tomorrow would bring.
I fell asleep holding Elizabeth, the sounds of the city our lullaby, and dreamed of parking lots and gunfire and coming home alive.
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