Page 61 of Can You Take It?

“Made the days go by faster,” I admit, swirling the glass in my hand. “But that was before... before I started getting involved in real shit.”

“You miss those days?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I take another shot. It’s easier to down the liquor than think too hard about it.

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “Because they don’t fucking matter. None of it does.” I grab the bottle, pouring another shot, but this time I don’t drink it right away. “You leave the last crime at the scene, move on to the next one. That’s how it works.”

“Or,” she says, “because you’re not really moving on?”

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Maybe it’s not about leaving the last crime at the scene. Maybe it’s about you wanting to find a better criminal each time. Or should I say... a badder one?”

Izel watches me for a second, probably wondering if I’ll push back. When I don’t, she leans in again. “You think you’re moving on. But somewhere, deep down, you’re not. It’s like… every time you catch a worse criminal, someone more fucked up than the last, you think you’re making up for every life you couldn’t save. Even the ones who… maybe didn’t deserve to be saved. You’re not chasing justice. You’re chasing redemption.”

I don’t want to admit it, but something about what she’s saying feels too close to the truth. Too close to the shit I don’t talk about. The shit I try not to think about.

“But the truth is that no matter how many criminals you put away, how many lives you try to save, it’s never going to be enough. You’re always going to feel that fucking hole inside you, because you can’t bring back the ones you lost. And you can’t control the ones who didn’t make it. Not even the ones who didn’t deserve to live.”

Izel doesn’t wait for me to respond. She knows me better than that by now. Her fingers brush the front of my shirt, and before I can stop her, she starts undoing the buttons one by one. My pulse quickens, but I don’t move. It’s like she’s in control of this moment, and for once, I don’t fight it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she whispers like she’s trying to convince me, and maybe herself, too.

Her fingers work their way down, her touch is light, almost soothing. The fabric of my shirt opens, baring the scars underneath. She traces one with her fingertip, the faint line of an old gunshot wound. I flinch, not from the pain—there’s none left—but from the memories that rush back.

“You tried,” she continues. “That’s more than anyone else did.”

Her touch isn’t demanding, it’s... gentle. And it’s been so damn long since anyone touched me like that.

Her fingers move lower, tracing the scar that runs along my side. I bite the inside of my cheek, focusing on her touch and not the memories that come with it.

“I started learning Swedish.” That pulls her eyes away from my scar, and they meet mine.

Her hands pause for a second, but she doesn’t say anything, just keeps tracing the line of the scar, waiting for me to explain.

“I did it because…” I take a deep breath. “I wanted her to feel comfortable enough to open up to me. Give me her name. Her address. Something, anything, so I could send her back to Sweden.”

Izel’s touch shifts, softer now, more... careful. Her lips are suddenly close to mine, so close I can feel her breath mix with mine, the warmth of it pulling me in. “Kiss me,” she whispers, and it’s not a request—it’s a dare.

My mouth twitches with a smile and I lean in just enough that my lips almost graze hers, but I stop. “Om jag rör vid dina läppar, kommer jag inte att sluta. Jag kommer att knulla dig på sätt som skulle sätta mig i fängelse, men tro mig, du kommer att vara den som avtjänar livstidsstraff.”

Her lips hover over mine and her eyes are still half-closed. “What did you just say?”

“Good night, Miss Montclair.”

Izel pulls back, her hand slipping away from my chest as she straightens up. The shift in her is subtle, but it’s there.

“Sweet dreams, Agent Reynolds.”

She stands, smoothing her dress with a quick motion, the intimacy of the moment shattered. I can’t decide if I regret what I said or if I’m glad I pushed her away. There’s a part of methat wants to pull her back, to take that kiss and everything that comes with it. But there’s another part of me that knows the second I do, there’s no going back.

I step out of my room, rubbing the back of my neck, and pause when I see Izel. She’s sitting on the couch sipping coffee like it’s any other morning, like we didn’t almost rip each other apart last night. She doesn’t look at me, just keeps her focus on the cup in her hand. That is, until she watches me head for the cabinet.

I open it and pull out the cuffs. Her eyes flicker to the cuffs, then to me, and without a word, she leans forward, putting her hands out.

I crouch in front of her, slowly locking the cuffs around her wrists. “I need to apologize.”

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