Their voices faded, moving away, back to whatever they did around here. Ryan’s hand resumed stroking my hair, the familiar gesture making my chest tight.
“They’re dealing weapons,” he said quietly, his voice Ryan again, not the Coop persona. “I’ve been under six weeks trying to get to their leader. Can’t call for backup—they are tracking all calls and messages in or out. If I blow cover now, the whole operation falls apart, and a lot of people could die.”
I tried to process that. He was undercover to stop weapons from being sold. Real weapons that would kill real people. It made what happened in the closet feel smaller somehow, even though my body was still shaking from it.
“What kind of weapons?”
“The kind that don’t belong outside a war zone. Automatic rifles, military-grade. The kind that turn a bad situation into a massacre.”
I pulled back slightly, enough to see his face in the dim light filtering through the grimy window. The movement made my arms sting, and I looked down. Red lines tracked up my forearms where I’d clawed at myself during the panic, some deep enough to bead with blood.
My neck hurt too—when I touched it, I found raised welts where I’d tried to tear at myself, trying to make space where there was none, trying to escape through my own skin if that’s what it took.
His eyes dropped to my arms, and something shifted in his expression—horror, guilt, both maybe.
“Christ, Mia.” His voice cracked on my name. “Let me clean those.”
He eased away from me, the loss of contact immediate and cold. His movements were careful, like I might shatter or bolt if he moved too fast. He disappeared into the bathroom, and I heard water running, his quiet cursing when something fell.
The loss of his warmth made me feel exposed, vulnerable. I pulled my knees to my chest, making myself smaller while he moved around the tiny bathroom. He came back with a wet cloth and a small first aid kit that looked military-issue, all efficiency and function.
“This’ll sting.”
His touch was unbearably gentle. Each dab of the cloth was careful, precise, like he was handling something infinitely breakable. The contrast made my head spin—this tenderness from hands that had shoved me into my worst nightmare.
The antiseptic burned, and I hissed through my teeth.
“I’m sorry.” The words carried more weight than just the sting. “God, Mia, I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Don’t.” I couldn’t handle his apologies. Not now. Maybe not ever.
He was finishing with the worst of my scratches when I saw his knuckles—split and swollen from punching the wall near my head. He’d hurt himself trying to scare me without actually hitting me. The blood had dried dark in the creases of his skin.
“Your hand.”
“It’s nothing.”
I took the cloth from him. Our fingers brushed, and that familiar electricity was still there, muted by trauma but not dead. Never dead, apparently, even after six years.
I cleaned the blood from his knuckles while he sat perfectly still, watching me with eyes that kept shifting between Ryan’s warmth and Coop’s calculation. This was who he was now—fractured, split between person and persona. I wondered if he even knew where one ended and the other began.
“You punch walls often in this line of work?”
“Only when I’m trying not to punch myself.”
The honesty of that sat between us, heavy and complicated.
This careful, tentative moment between us felt like handling broken glass—necessary but dangerous. Each touch was a negotiation, a question and answer without words. His hand turned slightly, palm up, and I traced the new scars there. Rougher calluses than before. A thin white line across his palm that hadn’t been there six years ago.
“You should get some sleep,” he said quietly. “You’re exhausted.”
He started to get up from the bed. “I’ll take the floor. Give you some space. I’m sure I’m the last person you want lying by you in bed?—”
He stopped mid-movement, glancing at the door, then shaking his head. “Shit. I can’t. If one of them comes in and sees me on the floor instead of…” He trailed off.
I understood. It would blow his cover. Make them suspicious. Probably get us both killed.
“Yeah,” I said quietly.
