“Marshall,” she said softly.
He looked at her again, jaw tight, eyes a shade darker than before.
“I’m worried about Jackson,” he said. “He’s halfway across the world, and every instinct I have is telling me he’s in the blast radius of whatever Sidarov is planning. And I can’t shake it.”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, frustration tightening every line of his face. “I hate this part—the waiting. The not knowing. Sitting still while people I care about are in harm’s way.” His gaze flicked toward the muted news broadcast again, jaw clenching. “I’m wired to move. To intervene. But when it’s my brother...?” He exhaled, low and rough. “It messes with my head.”
He shook his head once, as if trying to dislodge the fear. “I keep coming back to the same thing. I was in the right place last night. Exactly where I needed to be.”
He looked at her then, his eyes clearing with something like conviction. “I don’t have a lot of practice with trusting God,” he admitted, the words rough but unashamed. “But every nudge, every instinct...all of it pointed me to you. And if I hadn’t listened—if I’d ignored it—” He swallowed hard. “I don’t like thinking about what could’ve happened.”
For a moment, neither of them breathed.
He continued, quieter now, as if stepping onto holy ground. “Jackson’s out there, and yeah—I’m scared for him. But I’m also trying to believe that the same God who shoved me into yourorbit last night and over the last several weeks...is watching over my brother too.”
His shoulders eased. Not fully, but enough to show the weight had shifted.
Norah’s chest tightened, emotion rising unexpectedly at the quiet faith in his voice. “You don’t have to hold all of this by yourself. I’m here for you.”
A strange flicker moved across his face—something like relief, something like grief, but also hesitation. As if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how the words would land.
She shifted closer, resting her hand lightly on his forearm. His skin was warm, tense under her fingertips. He didn’t pull away. He looked wrecked.
Not physically—though there were bruises along his brow and a thin bandage near his temple—but emotionally. Like every hour of the last twenty-four had hit him at once and he was too stubborn to let any of them knock him over.
He pulled her into his side and her heart melted with relief. Part of her had feared that the confessions last night were simply the result of too much adrenaline and not enough sleep. An overreaction to the miracle that they were both, somehow, still alive.
She nuzzled into his warm, hard body, resting her cheek against the spot just below his shoulder that seemed created to cradle her head.
“You don’t owe me anything,” she said softly. It was easier to say when she wasn’t looking at him. “Not after all this time. Not after everything that’s happened since. If this—” She gestured vaguely with the hand that rested on his chest. “If this is just about the mission, or adrenaline, or feeling protective.. .I understand. I don’t want you to feel obligated because of what we used to be.”
Marshall pulled away, forcing her to look at him. His expression carried something fierce and wounded and reverent all at once.
“Norah.” His voice was a low, broken thing. “This isn’t about the mission.”
She blinked, waiting for more.
“It’s never been about the mission.”
He sat up straight and pulled her into his lap, giving her every chance to pull back. She didn’t. Couldn’t.
“You think I stayed up all night because of a mission?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “You think I tore through that loading dock because it was protocol?” His hand lifted toward her cheek, hesitated—then rested against her skin like he was afraid she’d vanish. “I came back for you. I always have.”
Her eyes stung.
He brushed a tear with his thumb, and that gentle movement undid the last of her composure.
The kiss happened not with heat but with gravity.
Soft. Slow. Trembling. A meeting of breath more than mouths. Recognition instead of passion. A quiet answer to a question neither had asked out loud.
Marshall cupped her face carefully, as if she were breakable.
Norah rested her hands against his chest, feeling the steady, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat against her palms.
When they finally parted, Marshall leaned his forehead against hers, breath warm, voice a rough whisper.
“I’m choosing you,” he said. “Not because of the past. Not because of what happened. Because I want to. Now. Today. I don’t know what’s coming next. But I want to face it with you.”
