He shifts the SUV into gear, and we pull out of base housing with only my essentials packed in a canvas go-bag: laptop, charger,hoodie, toiletries, three stress balls, and a backup pair of glasses I haven’t needed in a year but packed anyway. Just in case.
Crewe doesn’t talk much on the drive. That’s okay. I talk enough for the both of us.
“You know,” I say, staring out the window as the road starts to climb into the mountains, “I didn’t realize I’d be running for my life on a Tuesday. I thought maybe I’d have lunch. Read some code. Curse semicolons. Normal things.”
His hands tighten on the wheel, just for a second. “We’re not running.”
“Oh? So what would you call this detour into No Signal National Park?”
“Securing distance. Establishing control. Minimizing variables.”
“That’s adorable. You sound like one of my old algorithms.”
He glances at me, that half-smirk sneaking onto his face again. “Do your algorithms flirt back?”
“No, but they also don’t come in six-foot-four packages with arms the size of pythons and a jawline that could cut glass, so…”
His ears go pink.
Success.
We drive higher. Pine trees swallow the horizon. The road narrows to a twisty snake of asphalt. I catch myself watching his profile more than the view. There’s something steady about Crewe Hawthorne—like the world can tilt, but he won’t.
When we finally pull up to the safe house, I blink.
“Wow,” I mutter. “This is very… snow lodge meets panic bunker.”
The safehouse is like a storybook: a dark A-frame tucked into trees. Crewe parks under the eaves, kills the engine, and turns to me.
“Rule one,” he says. “You don’t open the door unless I’m at it first.”
“Okay.”
“Rule two. If I say get down, you get down.”
“Okay.”
“Rule three,” he adds, and the corner of his mouth tilts up. “You get the bed.”
“Chivalry lives,” I murmur. “Where will you sleep?”
He looks at me for a long beat, heat and humor and something else threading through the air. “Light sleeper,” he says. “Couch.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him I can take the couch and he can take the bed and also maybe my mouth if he’s bored. I say none of that. I say, “Okay,” because it’s. Not. The time.
“Good insulation. No neighbors. Secure perimeter. One entrance, two exits. It was swept this morning.”
“Swept?”
“Cleared and stocked it. Checked the cameras. You’re not the first person we’ve had to protect out here.”
“Do you always talk like that?” I ask after, needing levity like oxygen. “All command voice and quiet murder?”
He blinks. “Is that a complaint?”
“Depends,” I say, daring to grin. “On whether the murder is for me or about me.”
“For you,” he says, no pause. “Always.”
