Stephen didn’t step forward, didn’t wave. Just straightened, relief flickering across his face before he masked it away. Marshall wasn’t naïve—something was off with the kid. But whatever else Stephen was caught in, he had helped save them tonight.
Norah stopped long enough to speak softly. “Thank you.”
Stephen swallowed, nodded once. “Anytime.” His voice sounded too thin, too careful.
Marshall held the kid’s gaze a second longer, reading something tight behind his eyes. Fear? Guilt? He couldn’t tell yet. Later, he promised himself. After Norah was settled.
He guided her away.
The medic Stephen had called in—a kind woman named Dr. Potts—didn’t waste time. She checked Norah first. Vitals. Pupils. Wrist mobility. She pressed lightly on bruises forming near Norah’s shoulder.
“Nothing concerning,” Potts said. “The adrenaline crash is going to hit you like a truck soon, though. Hydrate. Don’t fight the shakes.”
Norah nodded, even though she visibly hated being fussed over.
Dr. Potts turned to Marshall next. “You look worse.”
“I always look worse.”
“That’s true,” Landon chimed in from his chair.
The doctor ignored them both and assessed Marshall anyway. His ribs protested under her hands. A shallow cut near his temple still stung where glass had nicked him. Nothing serious.
“You’re cleared,” Potts said. “Both of you.” She hesitated. “But don’t go far in case shock decides to get creative.”
Marshall guided Norah out before she could apologize for taking up space she hadn’t asked for.
The path to the residential safehouse wing curved gently. The walls here were thicker. The air quieter. It was designed to send the nervous system a single message—You’re safe.
Marshall didn’t feel safe.
Not until he got her behind a door.
Connor keyed open the apartment suite—three bedrooms branching off a shared living room with a kitchen against one wall. The lights were low and warm. A half-finished puzzle sat on the coffee table from whoever used this space last rotation.
“We’ll be down the hall,” Connor said. “Hit the comm if you need anything.”
Landon clapped Marshall’s shoulder once. “Good work getting her out.”
Then they left. The door clicked shut behind them.
The silence that followed hit like a pressure drop.
“You should sit,” Marshall said softly.
“So should you.”
He didn’t. Not yet. His hand slid from hers only long enough to arm the security system, check the windows, and sweep each room with quick practiced motions.
Old habits. Necessary ones.
When he returned, Norah stood near the couch, arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were glassy—not with tears, not fully—but her composure was held together by threads.
Seeing that undid something deep in him.
He approached slowly, giving her time to push him away if she wanted.
She didn’t.
