Callen leans against the cool edge of the pressroom table, suit rumpled, tie loose, hands knotted like he’s trying to wring patience from his bones. The overhead lights cast sharp lines across his jaw, picking out the shadowed hollows beneath his eyes. He glances up as the door clicks, a faint hope flickering and dying before it even takes shape—until Rysa steps in, hair swept back, navy blouse clinging to her tense shoulders, lips pressed to a thin line of resolve.

She hesitates just long enough for him to read everything she’s not saying. Her hands flex at her sides, nails biting into her palm. Callen gives a crooked, bitter smile. “Couldn’t stay away either?” The words are rough, half a dare, all plea.

Rysa’s laugh is low and unsteady, and she crosses the distance with measured steps, boots echoing on tile. “I came to say goodbye,” she murmurs, voice catching on the last syllable—eyes flicking over Callen’s mouth, lingering on the bruise at his collarbone she once left there.

His jaw tenses. “Is that all?” He’s inches away now, breathing her in, hunger and apology radiating off him. She lifts her chin, jaw stubborn, but her gaze softens when he reaches out, fingers trembling as he brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“There’s nothing left to fix,” Rysa whispers, but she doesn’t step back. Instead, her hand finds the back of his neck, drawing him down. Their mouths meet—gentle at first, hesitant, every movement weighted with weeks of longing and regret. Callen’s hands slide to her waist, anchoring her, grounding them both as the kiss deepens, raw and desperate.

Rysa fists her blouse in her hands, holding herself together even as she lets herself fall apart in his arms. Callen’s touch becomes frantic, tracing lines down her spine, memorizing the way her body arches into him—like she’s starved for forgiveness, for closeness, for something she can’t name. The kiss breaks only so she can breathe out a confession against his mouth: “I wanted to hate you.”

He shakes his head, voice hoarse. “Don’t. I’d rather you break me all over again than disappear.”

She presses her forehead to his, breathing through tears she refuses to let fall. Callen’s thumb draws slow circles over her hip—steady, reverent. When she finally pulls back, her face is open in a way he’s never seen before—grief, hope, and something wild that almost looks like relief.

Across town, Odessa stands in the shadow of a taxi, red lips parted in a shaky half-smile as she presses send on a voice memo: “I’m done running, Rysa. Maybe that’s enough.”

Mirelle, coat wrapped tight around her, lingers outside a café, cheeks flushed from the cold and the ache of goodbye. Soren stands before her, eyes pleading. She lets silence stretch between them, heart hammering. When he reaches for her hand, she lets his fingers slip away. “I can’t,” she says softly, but her voice is unbroken. She turns, spine straightening with every step, shoulders finally unburdened.

In the emptied pressroom, Callen brushes the pad of his thumb over Rysa’s cheek, awe mingled with sorrow. “Do we start over?” he asks, not daring to hope.

She traces the scar at his temple, mouth twisting into a small, rueful smile. “Maybe someday,” she whispers, and bends to press one last kiss—soft, irrevocable—against his lips.

Dawn seeps pale and uncertain into the room as Rysa ghosts away, leaving Callen alone and changed, longing curling quietly inside his chest. Mirelle steps out into the morning—alone, unhurried, the world wide open before her.