The grief in his voice is still evident of the pain of their deaths.
His hand moves through my hair absently. "I spent years building containment rooms for people. Interrogation spaces where I controlled everything. Light, temperature, hope. Told myself it was necessary. That breaking people to get intelligence saved lives." His fingers still in my hair. "Then the Committee killed my family. Killed everyone I'd protected by keeping them contained. And I realized the rooms I built didn't save anyone. They just made me feel like I had control when everything was already falling apart."
"Is that what you think you're doing with me? Building another room?"
"I'm trying not to." Dylan's voice roughens. "But my instinct is to protect through control. To eliminate variables. To make people depend on me so I can keep them safe. It's the only way I know how to care about someone without losing them."
I lift my head to meet his eyes. "I'm not asking you to stop protecting me. I'm asking you to trust that I can make my own choices about what risks to take. That I can be your partner instead of your responsibility."
"Partners still die."
"Everyone dies eventually. The question is whether we spend the time we have living or hiding."
Dylan studies my face in the lamplight. Looking for understanding. Maybe finding it.
"I can't promise I won't try to control things," he says finally. "It's too ingrained. Too much part of how I operate."
"Then I'll keep calling you on it. Keep pushing back. Keep reminding you that containment doesn't work even when it's built with good intentions."
"That sounds exhausting."
"Probably." I kiss his shoulder. "But you're worth the effort."
His arm tightens around my waist. Pulling me closer to his side. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we figure out how to build Delaney's case without getting more people killed."
"Tomorrow," I agree.
But sleep still won't come. Instead, I lie in Dylan's arms thinking about the photograph on the nightstand. About Lisa and Maya who died in a Committee bombing thirteen years ago. About Charlie and Ellen and the barista who have been added to the casualty list.
About whether anything we do will be enough to stop Webb before the body count becomes unbearable.
Dylan's breathing evens out. Sleep claiming him with the ease of someone trained to rest whenever the opportunity presents itself.
Eyes closed. Willing myself to find rest. Instead, I count the people who trusted me and died for it.
Back at Echo Base, Tommy's still scrubbing databases. Sarah's still coordinating warnings through back channels. Kane's still implementing security protocols from his position here at the safe house.
And in a few days, the Committee will crack my encryption. Will get every name. Every source. Every person who helped me investigate Protocol Seven.
The blackout protocols keep me safe. Keep me alive. Keep me from getting killed the way Dylan's family got killed.
But tomorrow, I'm finding a way to open them.
Because dozens of people are at risk right now. And living under restrictions won't save them.
Neither will sleeping with the man who built them.
But maybe understanding each other—really understanding what drives us, what terrifies us, what we're willing to sacrifice—gives us a chance to find a solution that doesn't require choosing between my freedom and everyone's safety.
Dylan's hand tightens in my hair. Even in sleep, he's holding on.
The warmth of his body beside me feels like borrowed time. Like a respite I'll have to give back too soon. Outside the safe house, the Committee is working through my source list. Eliminating witnesses. Following every trail I left behind. And no amount of blackout protocols or midnight training sessions will stop them from finding what they're looking for—me, and everyone connected to me.
Tomorrow brings answers or it brings more casualties.
Tonight, I have this moment. This man. This fleeting sense of safety.
It will have to be enough.
