Hours pass. My watch shows it's late when I hear her door open. Footsteps pause, then she appears in the living room doorway, backlit by the bathroom nightlight. Sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt, hair loose around her shoulders, vulnerability written in every line.
"Can't sleep," she says quietly. "Keep seeing Bruce's face. Keep feeling like he's going to prove locks don't matter."
I shift on the couch, making room without asking if that's what she needs.
She crosses the living room and sits beside me, close but not quite touching. Then slowly, hesitantly, she leans into my side. Head on my shoulder, hand fisting in my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear.
"Just for tonight," she whispers. "Just until I can breathe again."
"As long as you need." I wrap an arm around her shoulders, tucking her closer. "I've got you."
Her weight settles against me, warm and trusting in a way that makes my chest tight. She smells like the ocean-scented shampoo she uses. Real and present and alive despite someone's best efforts to change that.
She falls asleep within minutes, her breathing evening out against my chest. The tension drains from her shoulders, her grip on my shirt loosening slightly but never letting go completely. Even unconscious, some part of her needs the anchor.
I stay awake, feeling each exhale. Memorizing the weight of her against my side. The way her fingers stay twisted in my shirt even in sleep, like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go. The small sound she makes when she shifts closer, burrowing into the warmth like she's been cold for too long.
Freckles dust her shoulders where the oversized shirt has slipped down. Her pulse beats steady and strong at the base of her throat. Proof of life. Proof that I got to her in time when the ocean tried to claim her.
Months of watching her from a distance. Days of protection detail. And now this moment of her choosing my arms as the safest place to fall apart.
The couch is uncomfortable. My neck's going to hate me in the morning. I don't move. Don't shift. Don't risk waking her when she's finally found something that feels like safety.
She trusted me with this. With her fear, her exhaustion, her certainty that Bruce will find a way through every lock and alarm to prove she's never really escaped him.
I'm keeping that trust. Whatever it takes.
7
FALLON
Iwoke up in his arms. I didn't run.
Dawn light filters through the living room window, painting everything in shades of gray and gold. My cheek rests against Holden's chest, rising and falling with each even breath. My leg is hooked over his hip, our bodies tangled together like we've done this a thousand times before. His arm curves around my back, hand splayed between my shoulder blades, holding me close even in sleep.
Peace settles over me like a blanket. No nightmares about Bruce breaking through locks. No replaying the lab destruction on an endless loop. Just warmth and safety and the steady rhythm of Holden's heartbeat against my ear.
I should move. Should extract myself before he wakes up and realizes how completely I've plastered myself against him. Should rebuild the professional distance that's been eroding since he pulled me from the ocean.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am. Let myself have this moment of feeling protected instead of constantly vigilant. Of being held instead of holding everything together alone.
Holden's breathing shifts, deepening slightly. Waking up but not moving. His hand flexes against my back, thumb brushingalong my spine in a gesture that feels automatic, unconscious. Like his body knows what it wants even if his mind hasn't caught up yet.
"Morning," he says quietly, voice rough with sleep. His chest rumbles under my cheek with the word.
"Morning." I say softer than intended, still caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness. "Sorry. I didn't mean to completely take over your space."
"You didn't." His hand stays where it is, warm and anchoring. "Sleep okay?"
Better than I have in months. No Bruce-fueled panic spiraling through my dreams. No waking up every hour to check locks and windows. Just deep, dreamless sleep anchored by the solid presence of the man still holding me.
"Yeah." I force myself to sit up, immediately missing the warmth. Cold air rushes into the space between us. "I should probably get ready for the day."
Holden swings his legs off the couch, running a hand through his short hair. His t-shirt is wrinkled from sleep, riding up slightly to show a strip of tanned skin and muscle. "I'll make coffee. You want breakfast?"
The domestic normalcy of the question catches me off guard. Like we're a couple navigating morning routines instead of a protection detail and his assignment. But the easy way he offers, the casual assumption that making me breakfast is just what happens now, makes warmth spread through my chest.
"Coffee would be amazing. Breakfast too, if you're cooking." I head toward my bedroom, pausing at the doorway. "Thank you. For last night. For staying."
