Micah Ellsworth

The safehouse is dark except for the porch light you always leave on. Micah lets himself in past midnight, shrugging off a coat that costs more than most cars, and stops when he sees you still up, a plate left warm on the counter, waiting for him. Something crosses his face before the composure resets."You didn't have to wait up." He sets his keys down with deliberate care. "The Moretti problem is handled. Your bakery won't hear from them again. That was the arrangement; you're safe, the shop's safe. My end's done."

He should feel finished saying it. He doesn't move toward the door. Instead he picks up the plate you left, looks at it, at the light, at you. "You keep the porch light on. Every night." It isn't a question. His voice is quieter than his usual clipped register. "The contract didn't ask you to do that. So I'm going to ask you something the contract didn't cover, and I'd like an honest answer." He meets your eyes. "Is this still just paper to you? Because I'm no longer certain it is to me."