Page 61 of Unlocking Melodies

“Because he was family,” Jimmy finished quietly.

“Yes.” I stood, needing to move, to do something with the protective energy thrumming under my skin. “But family also means protecting each other. This whole town? They're your family now. The kind that shows up with casseroles and badly hidden surveillance operations, not bail money and gambling debts.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Mrs. Henderson's opera glasses are getting a workout lately.”

“The whole town's watching out for you,” I said softly. “Not because they want to control your choices, but because they've earned the right to care about what happens to you.”

“And you?” His question caught me off guard. “Where do you fit in all this?”

“I'm here,” I said simply. “Whatever you choose, whatever you need – I'm here.”

He looked at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. “You know what's weird? When Gary showed up, my first instinct wasn't to back down. It was to protect myself. To protect...” He gestured between us. “Whatever this is becoming.”

My heart did something completely unprofessional in my chest. Before I could respond, his phone buzzed again – another message from Gary, this one more insistent.

“I need to know,” Jimmy said simply, a quiet certainty in his voice that I recognized from Rosewood days.

“At least let me call Jake,” I tried, pulling out my phone. “He can?—“

“Run a background check? Look into his recent activities?” Jimmy's smile held no humor. “I'm pretty sure between you and Nina, there's already a full dossier. That's not what I need.”

I forced myself to stop pacing, to face him directly. “He's dangerous, Jimmy. You might not remember everything he's done, but I do. I watched what his addiction did to you at Rosewood – the nights you worked until exhaustion, the constant stress of covering his debts...”

“Right,” Jimmy's laugh was bitter, cutting through my protests. “Because you stuck around so long to see the aftermath.”

The words hit like a physical blow, made sharper by the fact that Jimmy didn't even remember why he knew they would hurt. He couldn't know how many nights I'd laid awake in my corporate penthouse, wondering how he was handling another of Gary's crises without me.

My hands moved automatically to pull up the police reports on my phone – evidence, facts, something concrete to show him. But Jimmy stood, crossing the space between us to stop me.

“I don't want to read about my life in reports,” he said quietly. “I don't want secondhand accounts or carefully curated warnings. I need to hear it, even the ugly parts, from him.”

“Jimmy—“

“I know you're trying to protect me.” His hand covered mine, lowering the phone. “But keeping me in the dark isn't protection – it's just another kind of prison. One where everyone else holds the keys to my past except me.”

The gentleness in his voice somehow made it worse. Here I was, falling into the same patterns that had broken us before – trying to control situations instead of trusting him to handle them.

Through the window, I could see Mrs. Henderson had abandoned all pretense of casual observation. She and what appeared to be half the neighborhood watch were openly conferring on his front lawn. Any other time, their completely unsubtle concern would have been amusing.

“You don't have to do this alone,” I said finally, because I couldn't bear the thought of him facing Gary without backup.

His smile then was soft, knowing. “I'm not. I've got a very protective man on speed dial, remember? Not to mention what looks like an entire tactical squad of elderly neighbors out there.”

“I can't talk you out of this, can I?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“No,” he said simply. “But you can trust me to handle it. Memory or not, I'm still capable of making my own decisions.”

“Let me at least call Jake,” I pressed, already reaching for my phone. “We can handle this officially, bring him in for questioning about?—“

“Did you ever consider,” Jimmy interrupted, his voice quiet but firm, “that maybe I need to do this my way? That maybe being handled is exactly what I don't need right now?”

The words hit like an echo of Nina's warnings about letting Jimmy protect himself. I watched, momentarily stunned into silence, as he moved to the kitchen with the kind of purposeful calm that made my protective instincts ache.

The familiar sounds of tea preparation filled the space between us – water running, cups clinking, the electric kettle humming to life. It was such a normal thing, making tea while dealing with earth-shattering revelations about his identity. His hands remained steady as he went through the motions, muscle memory apparently extending to stress-induced beverage preferences.

“You still drink chamomile when you're stressed,” I observed softly, the words escaping before I could catch them.

His hands paused briefly over the tea bags. “Apparently some habits survive memory loss.” He resumed his methodical preparation. “Like knowing exactly how I take my tea, but not remembering learning to make it this way.”

---