Chapter 40: The Distance Between Us

The days following Simon Vale's downfall were eerily quiet.

Too quiet.

The Circle hadn't retaliated. Not directly. Not publicly. But everyone knew silence didn't mean surrender—it meant they were preparing something worse. Something that wouldn't come with warnings or whispers, but with a strike designed to shatter.

And in that waiting, that calm before the next storm, something else began to shift.

Between Killian and Luna.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was subtle—moments caught in silence, glances that lingered longer, words that softened without meaning to.

Luna noticed first.

The way he paused when she entered the room.

The way his fingers brushed hers briefly when passing a folder.

The way he no longer corrected her ideas in meetings—but leaned in, listening carefully, letting her take the lead more often.

And when she stayed up late poring over data and crisis reports, Killian would silently bring her a glass of water. No comment. No expression.

Just a quiet act of care.

He didn't realize he was doing it.

But she did.

One evening, Luna stepped into the kitchen after hours of crisis mapping, rubbing the stiffness from her neck. She was surprised to find Killian already there—shirt sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, standing over the stove.

Cooking.

Well, more like awkwardly assembling a pan-seared steak and vegetables.

"You cook?" she asked, incredulous.

Killian didn't even look up. "I know how to feed myself."

"That's not the same as cooking."

"Then call it survival."

She smiled, walking closer. "Smells good."

"You're just starving."

She leaned against the counter, watching him slice into the steak with surgical precision. "Didn't think you were the domestic type."

"I'm not."

"But here you are."

"Here I am," he echoed quietly.

She hesitated for a moment, then said, "You've been… different lately."

Killian paused mid-slice. "Different how?"

"Less cold. More… human."

He set the knife down. "That wasn't intentional."

Luna chuckled softly. "It never is with you."

He looked at her then, a flicker of something in his expression—guarded, yet vulnerable. "I'm not trying to be anyone else."

"I didn't say you should."

Silence settled between them again, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

It was warm.

Something unspoken stretching in the space between their words.

After dinner, they stayed in the living room longer than usual. No files. No work. Just wine and the quiet rhythm of city lights outside.

Luna curled up on the couch, and Killian sat nearby, flipping through a report he wasn't even reading.

She looked over at him. "Do you ever stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Thinking. Planning. Fighting ghosts."

Killian leaned back slightly, eyes on the ceiling. "If I stop, they win."

"Not every moment has to be war, Killian."

He looked at her. "But that's all I know."

"And what if there's something else?"

"Then I don't know how to keep it."

Luna's chest tightened.

Neither of them said it—but it hung heavy in the air.

What happens when the one year is over?

Would they walk away untouched?

Or would they leave pieces behind?

She glanced at him again, words teetering on her lips.

But then he stood abruptly. "I have to finish reviewing the last asset report."

Luna's heart sank. And just like that, the moment slipped away.

The next evening, everything fell apart.

It started with another wave of media backlash—an anonymous accusation of insider trading in one of the Blackwell subsidiaries. Totally false, but damaging enough to stir shareholders.

Luna found herself on back-to-back calls for hours, defending operations, spinning narratives, and controlling fallout. She had it handled.

But when Killian walked in mid-meeting, face set in stone, everything unraveled.

"Why didn't you tell me the numbers from Tier 4 were leaking early?" he asked tightly.

"I already handled it," she said, trying to keep her voice even.

"I'm not asking if you handled it. I'm asking why I had to hear it from Elijah, not you."

Luna stood, tension prickling beneath her skin. "Because I was trying to avoid throwing more fire on your plate."

"I don't need protection, Luna."

"No," she snapped. "But you could use support."

His jaw clenched. "And you think handling things behind my back is support?"

"It's called initiative, Killian."

"It's called undermining."

She stared at him in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"I told you from the beginning—I don't want to be kept in the dark."

"And I've respected that. But I've also been holding this company together while you play warlord in the background."

His expression darkened. "So now I'm the problem?"

"I didn't say that—"

"But you meant it."

"No," Luna said, voice rising, a tremor of hurt and frustration lacing her words. "I meant I'm tired of walking on eggshells around you. One minute you're cold, the next you're warm, then cold again. You pull me in just enough to feel something, and then push me away like none of it matters. My heart is not a game, Killian. I'm not some pawn to be moved at your whim. I deserve honesty, not this agonizing dance of ambiguity.

Killian looked stunned for a moment—but only for a moment.

"I never promised more than what we agreed to."

"You didn't have to," she whispered. "Your actions did."

A beat of silence passed.

Then he said, "Don't mistake kindness for something else."

That hurt more than anything.

Luna turned away, her hands trembling. "Too late."

She started to walk off, but his voice stopped her again.

"We're only halfway through the year."

"I know."

"Then don't forget what this is."

She looked at him one last time—eyes stinging.

"I never forgot, Killian," she said quietly. "I just wish you'd admit you haven't either."

And then she left—without another word.

Later that night, Killian stood alone by the window again, glass in hand, jaw tight.

The lights glowed outside the house, indifferent and cold.

And for the first time in weeks, he felt it—that hollow space inside him.

Not from the Circle.

Not from betrayal.

But from something he didn't want to name.

Something—or someone—he'd pushed too far.

Again.