"I don't know how to do this," I admit. "How to care about someone without trying to control every variable that might hurt them."
"You learn. We both learn." Reagan squeezes my hand. "But you have to decide first. Am I your partner or your responsibility? I can't be both."
The question hangs in the air between us. Outside the room, the safe house is waking up—footsteps in the hall, the distantsound of coffee brewing, Stryker's voice calling something to Kane. Normal morning sounds of a facility preparing for another day of operations.
Inside this room, everything balances on my answer.
I've made countless decisions under pressure. Chosen who lives and who gets sacrificed for mission objectives. Weighed operational security against human lives and pulled the trigger when the math demanded it.
This should be simple by comparison.
It's not.
Because choosing Reagan means accepting that I might lose her. Means acknowledging that no amount of planning or protective protocols can guarantee she survives what's coming. Means living with the terror that wakes me at three in the morning remembering watching the bombing that killed my wife and daughter.
But refusing to choose her means exactly what she said—slow death by isolation. Means treating her like every other asset I've managed and lost. Means dishonoring the trust she showed me last night when she let me touch her despite knowing what these hands have done.
"Partner," I say finally.
Reagan's smile is immediate and genuine. "Good answer."
She leans in, kisses me softly. Different from last night's desperate intensity. This is morning light and conscious choice and the beginning of something that terrifies me more than any Committee operation.
When she pulls back, her expression turns serious. "But if you try to lock me down again without consulting me first, I will make your life hell. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good." She stands, finishes dressing. "Now get up. We need coffee and I need to figure out how to help Delaney build this case without external access."
I watch her head toward the door, then call after her. "Reagan?"
She pauses, looks back.
"Thank you. For not letting me retreat."
"That's what partners do. We don't let each other hide." She opens the door. "Now hurry up before Stryker drinks all the good coffee."
The kitchen smells like burned toast and too-strong coffee when I arrive fifteen minutes later. Stryker leans against the counter with a mug, eyebrows raising slightly when he sees me enter after Reagan.
"Morning," he says. Too casual. Too knowing.
"Morning."
Kane sits at the table with displays spread across the surface. He glances up, takes in my appearance and Reagan's, and his expression shifts. Not disapproval exactly. More like reassessment.
"We need to discuss operational security," Kane says.
"Agreed." I pour coffee, notice Reagan's already claimed a mug and settled at the table with Khalid. The kid watches me with those old eyes, then gives a nod. Approval from a fifteen-year-old Syrian survivor shouldn't matter.
It does.
Stryker moves closer, voice dropping. "So. You and the journalist."
"Yes."
"About damn time." He grins. "Tension's been thick enough to cut since she got here. Thought I'd have to lock you in a room together."
"Unnecessary."
