"Running kept you alive." I move closer, watching her face. "You had a restraining order.”
“Which I let expire…”
“Doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have to have one. You did everything right. You didn't fail. The system did."
"And now I'm here, and someone's still trying to kill me." Her voice cracks. "When does it end?"
"When we catch whoever's doing this." I touch her shoulder, light and careful. "And we will catch them. I promise you that."
She looks up at me, green eyes bright with unshed tears. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I don't." The words come out rougher than intended. "I bring my team home, Dr. McKay. Every mission, every time. You're under my protection now. That makes you my responsibility."
"I'm not your responsibility. I'm an assignment." She pulls away, but there's less heat in it than before. "Just a protection detail."
Just an assignment. Right.
I've been lying to myself for three months, and I'm not about to stop now.
"Get some rest," I tell her. "I'll install some better locks, check the windows, make sure this place is secure."
She nods and retreats to the bedroom again. This time I hear the springs creak as she lies down.
I give it twenty minutes, then crack the bedroom door to check on her. She's asleep, curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek. Finally letting her guard down.
The door closes quietly. Now I’m sure she’s asleep, I have Griff bring me the things I need to make this place safe. When he arrives, he starts to give me shit, but I quietly close the door in his face.
Two hours pass. Deadbolt installed on the front door, window sensors on every window, portable security camera facing the entrance. It's not Fort Knox, but it's better than the nothing she had before. When the security upgrades are complete, the guest quarters next door beckon. Hartwell arranged them, and my gear needs unpacking.
The guest quarters are sparse but functional. Single bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette. Close enough to respond if Fallon needs help, separate enough to give her space.
Weapon cleaning and gear prep for tomorrow fill the next minutes. Check the magazine. Verify the safety. Lay out tactical equipment in order.
Movement sounds through the thin wall from Fallon's apartment. Water running. Shower.
Focus on the work. Clean the weapon. Check the magazine. Verify the safety.
Don't think about her in the shower next door. Don't think about water running over curves only glimpsed from a distance during morning surveys. Don't think about what she looks like with her guard down.
The water shuts off. Stay here. Give her privacy. Keep working on gear like a professional.
Someone knocks on the door minutes later.
The door opens to reveal Fallon standing there in a thin tank top and sleep shorts that show entirely too much skin. Hair damp and falling in auburn waves around her shoulders. Droplets trail down her throat, disappearing into the hollow of her collarbone. Purple bruises peek from beneath the edge of her tank top along her ribs. The rope burn on her thigh is red and angry, a reminder of how close she came to drowning.
She's beautiful and battered, looking at me like she's waiting for proof that I'm like Bruce.
"I can handle myself," she says, chin lifting in challenge.
"I know." The words come out steady despite a hammering pulse. "But handling yourself and being safe aren't the same thing."
She crosses her arms, defensive. "And you're here to make sure I'm safe."
"That's the assignment."
"Right." Something flickers in her eyes. Disappointment, maybe. Or relief. "The assignment."
She's going to learn the difference between protection and possession. Going to learn that wanting to keep her safe doesn't mean controlling her life. Going to learn nothing about me resembles the man who made her afraid.
