11
FALLON
The safe house isn't safe from what I want.
The beach cottage sits isolated on a stretch of coast twenty miles from Tidewater, accessible only by a single road that winds through salt marsh and scrub pine. Secure perimeter, motion sensors, cameras monitoring every approach. Griff and Thatcher did a full security sweep when we arrived, checking sight lines and camera placements, pronouncing it as defensible as any location off-base could be.
Then they left. Just Holden and me and the storm rolling in from the Atlantic.
The cottage is small but surprisingly well-appointed. One bedroom with a queen bed and quality linens, living area with comfortable furniture that doesn't scream "safe house," kitchen compact but equipped with everything we might need. Windows face the ocean, giving us clear sight lines, and the security measures are so well-hidden I wouldn't notice them if Griff hadn't pointed out the reinforced frames and bulletproof glass. State-of-the-art protection disguised as a beach rental.
"You take the bedroom," Holden says, setting our bags inside the door. "I'll be fine on the couch."
"That couch is like four feet long and you're over six feet tall."
"I've slept in worse places." He's already doing a security check, testing window locks, verifying camera feeds on his phone. Professional, thorough, refusing to meet my eyes because we both know what being alone together in close quarters means after last night's kiss.
I watch him work, tracking the efficient movements, the competence that never wavers even when I know he's as aware of me as I am of him. The cottage feels smaller with both of us in it. More intimate. The kind of proximity that makes ignoring attraction impossible.
The weather forecast warned of a hurricane passing offshore, close enough to bring heavy rain and high winds. Already the sky has darkened to slate gray, clouds building on the horizon like a wall. Waves crash against the beach with increasing violence, spray reaching almost to the dune line.
"Storm's going to get worse before it gets better," Holden says, checking his phone again. "We might lose power."
"How long are we stuck here?"
"Until Hartwell gives the all-clear. Could be days if the investigation takes time." He finally looks at me, and the intensity in his gray eyes makes my pulse stutter. "You okay with that?"
Am I okay being trapped in a small cottage with the man I kissed last night? The man whose taste I can't forget, whose hands I can't stop thinking about, whose presence makes me want things I've been afraid to want since Bruce destroyed my ability to trust?
"I'm okay with it," I say softly.
The afternoon passes in careful distance. Holden works on his laptop, coordinating with Hartwell via encrypted messages. I try to read but can't focus, too aware of him across the room. The sound of his breathing. The way he rolls his shoulders whentension builds. The rare moments when his mouth quirks at messages on screen.
We're dancing around each other, maintaining space that feels increasingly impossible to hold.
By evening, the storm has arrived in full force. Rain lashes the windows, wind howling around the cottage with enough violence to make the walls shudder. The power flickers once, twice, then dies completely.
"Power's out," Holden says, already moving toward the kitchen. "Generator will kick on in a minute, but I'm going to override it."
"Why?" I follow him, watching as he opens a panel I hadn't noticed near the back door.
"Noise and heat signature." His fingers work quickly over controls, shutting down the auto-start sequence. "If someone's looking for us, a running generator is a beacon. Battery backup will keep the security systems operational for days, and we don't need lights to know if someone's coming."
The tactical logic makes sense, but it also means we're about to spend the night in the dark. Together. In very close quarters.
"Should have candles somewhere," he adds, moving to the kitchen drawers.
We find them along with matches and battery-powered lanterns. I light candles while Holden checks his phone, grimacing at the battery level. "Down to twenty percent. We can charge essentials off the backup battery if needed, but I'd rather save it for the security feeds."
"Mine's about the same." I check, finding similar results. "Guess we're going low-tech for the duration."
"For now." He doesn't sound concerned, just matter-of-fact. "Hartwell knows where we are. We're secure. Storm actually works in our favor—anyone trying to approach has to deal withthe same conditions we do, and our sensors will pick them up long before they get close."
Candlelight flickers across his face, casting shadows that make his features look sharper, more intense. Without the hum of electronics and HVAC, the cottage feels smaller. More intimate. Just us and the storm and all this unspoken tension crackling between us.
"Hungry?" I ask, needing a distraction.
"Starving."
