Chapter 186
Lena's POV
The morning light filtered through the cabin windows in soft, golden streaks, and I woke to the smell of coffee and something warm baking in the oven. For a moment, I forgot where I was—forgot the confrontation with my mother, forgot the years of accumulated pain that had finally cracked open yesterday. All I knew was the scent of comfort and the distant sound of Rowan moving quietly in the kitchen.
I pulled on the oversized sweatshirt he'd found for me last night and padded barefoot down the short hallway. He was standing at the stove, his back to me, flipping what looked like French toast. The sight of him there, in worn jeans and a faded Columbia t-shirt, doing something as ordinary as making breakfast, made my chest tighten in a way I wasn't ready to examine.
"Morning," I said softly.
He turned, and the smile that crossed his face was unguarded in a way I'd rarely seen. "Morning. I wasn't sure what you'd want, so I made... everything."
He wasn't exaggerating. The small table was set with French toast, scrambled eggs, fresh berries, and toast with what looked like homemade jam. My throat went tight.
"You didn't have to do all this."
"I wanted to." He pulled out a chair for me. "Sit. Coffee's ready."
We ate in comfortable silence, the lake visible through the windows, its surface mirror-smooth in the early light. I caught myself watching him—the way he buttered his toast with precise movements, the slight crease between his brows as he checked his phone and then deliberately set it aside.
"Thank you," I said finally. "For bringing me here. For... all of it."
His eyes met mine, serious and warm. "You can come back whenever you need to. This place—" He gestured around the cabin. "It's yours too now. If you want it to be."
I felt the words settle somewhere deep in my chest, alongside all the other careful promises he'd been making. "I'd like that."
The drive back to the city was quiet but not uncomfortable. Rowan kept one hand on the wheel and the other loosely holding mine, his thumb tracing absent patterns across my knuckles. I found myself leaning slightly toward him, my shoulder brushing his, and when he glanced over with a soft smile, I didn't pull away.
"I'll see you tonight?" he asked as we pulled up to my building.
"I'll text you when I'm done with work."
He caught my hand before I could open the door, bringing it to his lips in a gesture that made my breath catch. "I meant what I said, Lena. All of it."
I believed him. That was the terrifying part.
---
The office was already buzzing when I arrived, Rachel greeting me with a knowing look that suggested Emily had been texting her updates. But before I could deflect her questions, I spotted Diana through the glass wall of her office, head bent over a stack of files.
I stopped short. "When did she get here?"
Rachel winced. "About seven-thirty. I tried to tell her she should still be resting, but you know Diana."
I did know Diana. Which was why I was already heading for her office, concern overriding my own exhaustion.
She looked up when I knocked, and I was relieved to see color in her cheeks, even if there were still faint shadows under her eyes. "Before you start," she said, holding up a hand, "I'm fine. The doctors cleared me for light work, and I was going stir-crazy at home."
"Light work doesn't usually mean coming in at seven-thirty."
"I couldn't sleep." She gestured to the files spread across her desk. "I kept thinking about what you said—about building something bigger than just case-by-case litigation. About actually helping people like Katya, like all the others who got caught in that system."
I sank into the chair across from her, studying her face. There was a brightness in her eyes I hadn't seen in weeks, an energy that had nothing to do with physical recovery and everything to do with purpose.
"Show me what you've got."
We spent the next four hours mapping it out—the legal framework for a victim support network, potential partnerships with medical reform advocates, the names of legislators who might champion the cause. Diana had already drafted preliminary outreach letters to three nonprofit organizations, and her analysis of existing gaps in the system was thorough and sharp.
"This is good work," I said, genuinely impressed. "But you need to pace yourself. This is a marathon, not a sprint."
"I know. But I also know what it's like to lose time." Her expression softened. "I lost two years being angry about the Katya case. I don't want to lose any more time being careful when I could be useful."
I understood that impulse more than I wanted to admit. "Just promise me you'll actually rest when you need to. We need you healthy for the long haul."
"Deal." She glanced at the clock. "It's almost three. Don't you have somewhere to be?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"
"I'm trying to get you to take your own advice about work-life balance." She smiled. "Go. I'll lock up here in an hour."
I hesitated, then nodded. "Tomorrow morning, we'll divide up the organization outreach. And Diana? Thank you. For caring about this as much as I do."
"Thank you for giving me something worth caring about."
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