8
DYLAN
Dawn light filters through the curtains when I wake. Reagan sleeps against my chest, one leg still draped over my hip, her breathing deep and even. The photograph on the nightstand catches the early sun—Lisa and Maya frozen in a moment thirteen years gone.
I should move. Extract myself from this position and return to operational status. Treat last night like the mistake it probably was.
Instead, I stay still. Watch the way Reagan's hair spreads across my shoulder. Feel the warmth of her skin against mine. Count the breaths that prove she's alive and here and choosing to be in my bed despite knowing exactly what kind of man I am.
The contradiction weighs heavy. I spent thirteen years after Lisa and Maya died building walls between myself and attachment. Walls that kept me functional. Kept me focused on the mission instead of the grief. Walls that let me protect people without risking the kind of loss that breaks you completely.
Last night, Reagan walked through those walls like they were paper.
Her eyes open. Find mine already watching her. A small smile crosses her face—genuine, unguarded. The kind of expression that makes my throat tighten.
"Morning," she says.
"Morning."
She shifts slightly, stretches without moving away. The sheets slide down, revealing skin marked with faint red lines where my fingers gripped too hard. Evidence of what we did. What I let happen.
What I wanted to happen.
"You're thinking too loud," Reagan observes. "I can hear the calculations from here."
"Just planning the day."
"Liar." She props herself up on one elbow, studies my face with the same intensity she brings to investigating Webb's network. "You're already compartmentalizing. Putting last night in a box labeled 'mistake' or 'complication' so you can go back to treating me like an asset you need to protect."
My jaw tightens. "It's more complicated than that."
"It's not." Reagan sits up fully. The sheet pools around her waist. "You're scared. I get it. But don't insult either of us by pretending last night didn't mean anything."
"I didn't say it didn't mean anything."
"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face." She reaches for her shirt from the floor. "We should get dressed. Kane probably wants a morning briefing."
She's giving me an exit. A way to retreat into professional distance without addressing what happened between us. The smart play—accept the out, return to established protocols, keep emotional complications contained.
But watching her pull on clothing like armor makes tension crawl up my spine.
"Reagan—"
"It's fine." She finds her pants, steps into them with mechanical efficiency. "Last night was what it was. We don't have to make it complicated."
"Stop."
She pauses, looks at me over her shoulder.
"Last night meant something." The words come out rougher than intended. "It meant something and that terrifies me because everyone I let matter ends up dead. Lisa. Maya. Operators I commanded who trusted me to keep them alive. You want to know why I build walls? That's why. Not because I don't care. Because I care too much and people die anyway."
Reagan crosses back to the bed. Sits on the edge facing me. "So your solution is to never let anyone close? To treat everyone like chess pieces you can move around a board? That's not protection, Dylan. That's just slow death by isolation."
"It keeps people alive."
"It keeps you alone." Her hand finds mine on the sheets. "I'm not Lisa. I'm not Maya. I'm not some civilian who needs you to make all the decisions. I walked into this situation with my eyes open. I chose to sleep with you knowing exactly who you are and what you've done. Don't dishonor that choice by treating me like I don't understand the risks."
The logic is sound. The emotion behind it even more so. But years of training don't just evaporate because someone makes a good argument.
