Instead, she spent her time with Jonas mostly, or with one of the team, who were, she was finding out, normal people with crazy, dangerous secret jobs.
Lunch in his tech room had become routine. Sandwiches balanced precariously on crowded desks, mugs of tea. Although he didn’t allow any food or liquid near his station. In fact, he was almost religious about it. A quirk some would call it, but she saw it for what it was, him needing control, calm, order. Fingers still flying over the keys even as he answered her questions.
And he did answer them. Patiently, even when her curiosity slowed him down. He explained feeds and firewalls, satellite tracking, and facial recognition, pointing things out on his screens with a quiet intensity that made her lean closer just to catch every word.
She loved watching him like that. Focused. Brilliant. In his element.
He was a different man in those moments, not just the quiet, brooding figure she’d first met, but animated, sharp, almost boyish when he veered off to share some obscure fact. Yesterday, he’d explained the etymology of the word algorithm mid-code, his eyes lighting up when she laughed.
It was intoxicating.
And yet.
Her cheeks warmed at the thought she hadn’t been able to shake. He hadn’t kissed her again. Not once since the safehouse. Not since he’d made her fall apart with his hands and mouth, not since she’d whispered his name with tears still drying on her cheeks.
They spent hours together. Sometimes whole days. They ate, worked, even argued gently over trivial things like how much sugar belonged in tea. He looked at her like she mattered, like she wasn’t just some obligation he’d picked up.
But he didn’t touch her.
Not beyond the accidental brush of hands when passing her a mug, or the fleeting press of his shoulder against hers when they bent over the same screen.
Clara curled her legs beneath her on the sofa in her small apartment, staring at the steam rising from her tea. She should be grateful he was giving her space, not rushing her, not demanding anything. But a part of her, an inconvenient, treacherous part, wanted more.
Wanted him.
She set the mug down, pressing her palms to her knees, trying to steady herself. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe that was why. Or maybe he was holding himself back. She remembered the way his breath had caught after their kiss, the way he’d torn himself away once before.
There were shadows in him. She could feel them.
But when he smiled at her, even one of those rare, shy little smirks, she couldn’t help but believe the shadows didn’t matter. Not to her.
She drained the last of her tea, restless, the knot in her chest refusing to ease. Sitting here stewing wasn’t helping. She wanted to see him.
Pulling on a cardigan, she padded through the quiet corridors of the compound. She half-expected to find him buried in his tech cave, multiple screens glowing on his face, that intense focus swallowing him whole.
Instead, she almost collided with him as he came striding down the hall.
And he was smiling. Not the guarded, fleeting thing she’d grown used to, but a full, genuine smile that transformed his whole face, softening the sharp edges.
“Clara,” he said, almost breathless with energy. He caught her hand without hesitation, his warm fingers wrapping around hers as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on.”
Her heart stuttered at the contact. “Where are we going?” she asked, breathless herself but smiling despite the rush of nerves.
He glanced back at her, eyes alight. “Got a call. My mum’s having a good day. She’s… asking for me.”
Clara blinked, caught off guard. “Oh.” She had no idea what that meant, but she followed him anyway.
Minutes later, they were in one of the unmarked SUVs, the leather seats cool against her palms as the countryside blurred past. He drove fast but smooth, one hand loose on the wheel, the other tapping rhythmically against his thigh. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, his jaw set in concentration but his eyes unusually bright.
“Tell me about her,” she said softly.
He glanced at her, then back to the road, as though weighing whether he could. Finally, his mouth curved again, faint but fond. “She has Alzheimer’s, early onset.”
Grief clung to his words, and she felt her own heart heave in pain for him. “I’m sorry.” Useless words but all she could offer him.
“She’s the best,” he said simply, and his voice was thick with something that made her chest ache. “Loving. Kind. Strict, but she never stayed angry long. Always quick to hug. Supportive. Fierce.”
His fingers flexed against the wheel. “For a long time, it was just us. No dad in the picture. She worked two jobs, still somehow made time to read with me every night. When I wassmall, she used to sneak notes into my lunchbox, silly things, like facts about space, or riddles. ‘What has keys but can’t open doors?’ Stuff like that.”
