Chapter 18 One rainy night he waited without an umbrella under her building and let it soak him through. Angela finished overtime and paused when she saw the tall, stripped-back figure in the rain. Her brow tightened and smoothed. He stepped toward her. Water ran from his jaw. His voice came low and worn. "Angela, for ten years I was blind-trusted the wrong person, hurt you, and left you to take the worst of it. I'm sorry." It was the first time he had ever said it like that. She listened, rain whispering between them. After a moment, she met his eyes, calm and flat. "Captain Holt, I heard you. It's over. I don't hate you anymore. But don't do this. Let's both live our lives." She turned and went upstairs without looking back. The rain was cold. Her words were colder. He did not leave. He knew a light apology would not pay one part in ten thousand of what she had carried. So he did what he knew-he set his jaw and worked. He stopped saying come back and stopped throwing apologies at her door. He started proving change. He asked an old hand at the plant for help, hunted down the recipes she used to make, and practiced until the food was at least edible. He left a hot supper in a thermos outside her door each night. He kept track of her health. When he learned her joints flared after the flood, he sourced the best heat plasters and herbal packs he could find and slid them through her mail slot. If she worked late, he took up his post under the streetlamp across the way and waited until her light came Most of the time, she stayed frosted over. She tossed the food. She rarely touched the things he bought. He kept going. She threw one night's dinner away; he cooked the next. She ignored him; he showed up anyway. It was penance, and it looked a lot like punishment. On the other side of town, cut off and cornered, Elaine Ward tipped into hate. Years of scheming, gone. Angela alive, working, maybe even beginning again. Elaine called in what favors she had left and hired men who did not mind dirty work. She planned a revenge attack-to grab Angela on her walk home after the late shift and ruin her. That night Angela's route back to the tenement took her through a narrow, unlit alley between buildings. Gideon, as usual, followed far enough back to be unseen and close enough to intervene. Several figures sprang from the wall with a sack and sticks. "What are you doing?" Angela cried, panic snapping her voice. Gideon was already sprinting, and sprinted hard, throwing himself between her and the men. He threw himself between her and the men, and the alley erupted into a fight of fists and sticks. He could handle himself, but there were too many of them and they were armed. In the scramble a blade flashed toward Angela. Gideon did not think. He hauled her into his chest and took the knife across his back. Florence Florence is a passionate reader who finds joy in long drives on rainy days. She's also a fan of Italian makeup tutorials, blending beauty and elegance into her everyday life.