Chapter 80: Trouble
She took them from him carefully, lifting them to smell, and something in her expression softened in a way he hadn’t seen from her before, not gratitude exactly, something closer to being seen in a way she wasn’t used to.
"Come in," she said. "Dinner’s almost ready."
The table was already set, two places, candles unlit but ready, a level of effort that told him she’d been planning this since yesterday’s text. He set the wine down and helped her find a vase for the flowers, the two of them moving around her small kitchen with the easy coordination of people who’d already learned each other’s rhythms without quite noticing when it happened.
They ate slowly. She’d made something with braised short ribs and root vegetables, the kind of food that took hours and patience, and Sean found himself eating with the genuine appreciation of someone who hadn’t realized how much he’d missed meals that were made with that much care.
"This is incredible," he said.
"My mother’s recipe," said Makima. "She used to make it on Sundays. My father always said it tasted like the building had a good year, even when it hadn’t."
"What did he mean by that," said Sean.
"He meant it was the kind of food you only make when things are settled enough to take the time," said Makima. She looked at her plate for a moment. "I haven’t made it in three years."
Sean held her gaze across the table. "Why now."
"Because for the first time in three years," said Makima, "things actually feel settled enough."
The candles between them flickered slightly from the kitchen’s ventilation. Sean reached across the table and took her hand. She let him, her fingers curling into his without hesitation.
"Sean," she said quietly. "Whatever happens with Vivian Castellan. Whatever this turns into."
"Yeah," said Sean.
"I want you to know that this," she gestured between them with her free hand, "isn’t something I’m doing because you saved the building. I need you to know that."
"I know that," said Sean.
"Do you," said Makima. "Because sometimes I worry you think I owe you something. And I don’t want whatever this is to be built on a debt."
Sean thought about that carefully before answering. "I don’t think you owe me anything," he said. "I think you’re someone who brought a stranger soup when he had a fever before any of this started. That’s who you were before I had money. I just got to see more of it once I had the chance to actually be around."
Makima was quiet for a long moment, her thumb moving slowly across the back of his hand.
"Okay," she said finally, softly. "Good."
They finished dinner slowly, the conversation drifting into smaller things, Danny’s latest complaint about his job, a tenant on the second floor who kept reporting a noise that didn’t exist, the specific way the building creaked differently depending on the weather. Normal things. The kind of conversation that had nothing to do with property law or surveillance or forty years of buried history.
After, they sat together on her small couch, the candles still burning low on the table, her head against his shoulder, neither of them in a hurry to fill the silence with anything.
"Thank you for tonight," said Sean, eventually.
"Thank you for the flowers," said Makima. She turned her head slightly to look at him. "You didn’t need to spend money on me to make this matter, you know."
Sean almost laughed. If only she knew exactly how literally the universe agreed with her on that point and disagreed on it at the same time.
"I know," he said. "I wanted to anyway."
She studied his face for a moment, something curious in her expression, like she could tell there was a layer underneath his words she wasn’t getting access to. Then she let it go, the way she always eventually let go of the parts of him she couldn’t fully see, and leaned up to kiss him instead.
It was slow. Unhurried. Different from the urgency of the first time, something steadier underneath it now, the particular ease of two people who’d already decided this was worth being patient with.
Then when Sean and Makima had started kissing each other more intensely with both of their hands in the process of undressing each other.
His phone buzzed against the coffee table, the sound sharp enough to break through everything.
Makima pulled back slightly, glancing at it. "Ignore it."
Sean almost did. Then he saw Walsh’s name on the screen and the easy warmth of the evening shifted instantly into something more alert.
"I have to take this," said Sean.
Makima sat up properly, watching his face.
"Walsh," said Sean, answering.
"Sir." Walsh’s voice was tight, controlled, the specific flatness of someone managing urgency without letting it become panic. "Patricia Moyer’s house. There’s been a break-in."
Sean’s stomach dropped. "Is she there."
"No sir, she’s still at her daughter’s, that’s the only reason this isn’t worse," said Walsh. "My man on coverage spotted movement inside about twenty minutes ago. Called it in immediately. By the time local police arrived, whoever was inside was gone."
"What did they take," said Sean.
"Hard to say yet without Patricia present to confirm what’s missing," said Walsh. "But sir, they went through the house carefully. Drawers, files, anything that looked like paperwork. This wasn’t a random burglary. They were looking for something specific."
Sean closed his eyes for a moment. "They think she still has documents related to the property."
"That’d be my read, sir," said Walsh.
"Get her somewhere even further away," said Sean. "Tonight. Somewhere her daughter’s address doesn’t connect to easily."
"Already in motion," said Walsh. "I have a man driving her to a hotel across the river within the hour."
"Good," said Sean. "Thank you, Walsh."
He hung up. Makima was watching him with the specific stillness of someone bracing for bad news.
"What happened," she said.
Sean told her. The break-in. The careful search. The timing.
