He looked away, annoyed, and then back at me. “I admit it. I don’t want him fucking touching you.” He was enraged at the thought, and then it seemed to melt away. He took a step toward me, tenderly gripping my hips. “Can’t you see through my bullshit by now?”

“Can’t we just…I don’t know…say what we think or feel?”

“I thought I was,” Thomas said. “Your turn.”

I picked at my nails. “You were right. I’m scared. I’m afraid I can’t do this even if I want to. And I’m not sure you can either.”

He pressed his lips together in a hard line, amused. “Get your keys.”

I took the few steps to my phone and bent down to retrieve it, and then walked to the counter and swiped the keys up with one hand, my purse with the other. As I slid on my slippers, I couldn’t help but glance back once more to Jackson. His limbs were splayed out in every direction, his mouth was open, and he was snoring.

“He’ll be fine,” Thomas said, holding out his hand for me.

I joined him in the hall, locking the door behind us. We passed the elevator and climbed the stairs in silence. Once we arrived at his door, Thomas swung the door open and gestured for me to walk inside.

Thomas flipped on the light, revealing a space so immaculate it didn’t look lived in. Three magazines were fanned out on the coffee table, and a like-new couch sat against the wall.

Everything was in its place—plants, magazines, and even pictures. It included everything that made up a home, but beneath the homey embellishments, it was too perfect, sterile even. It was as if Thomas were trying to convince himself that he had a life outside of the Bureau.

I walked over to a console table next to the flat screen on the opposite side of the room. Three silver frames held black-and-white photos. One, I assumed were his parents. Another showed Thomas with his brothers, and I was amazed at how much the younger four looked alike. Then, there was one of Thomas and a woman.

Her beauty was distinctive, seeming to be wild and effortless. Her razor-cut short hair and cleavage-baring tight shirt surprised me. She wasn’t who I’d thought would be Thomas’s type at all. Her thick eyeliner and smoky eyes were that much more prominent in grayscale. Thomas held her like she was precious to him, and I felt a lump form in my throat.

“Is she Camille?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, his voice tinged with disgrace. “I’m sorry. I’m rarely home. I forget it’s there.”