Kneeling.
I blink, surprised by the closeness. He’s solid and quiet and calm. Everything I’m not right now.
“You’re not alone,” he says. “I’m here. And whoever did this? They’re going to regret it.”
I search his eyes. “You always this intense?”
“No. Just when it matters.”
I don’t say it out loud, but I think it:
I hope I matter.
And God help me, I feel safer already.
FIVE
CREWE
She’s already curled up on the left side of the bed when I come out of the bathroom.
Hair down. Glasses off. Hoodie traded for a loose tank that slides down one bare shoulder like it has a mind of its own.
“I left the right side for you,” she says, voice casual but tight at the edges.
“This is… fine,” I say, gesturing to the couch, even though we both know the thing is a glorified ottoman.
She tilts her head. “Crewe. You’re going to wake up shaped like a paperclip. Just get in.”
I hesitate.
It’s not that I don’t want to. Hell, I’ve been imagining this woman asleep beside me since I met her.
But this isnothow that scenario played out in my head. In my head, there were no cheddar cheese interrogations, no threatshanging over her, no minefield of unresolved tension between us.
In my head, I wasn’t the one assigned to protect her.
“I don’t snore,” she adds. “But I do occasionally talk in my sleep. Once I recited the entire Declaration of Independence and didn’t wake up until the ‘pursuit of happiness’ part.”
That earns a quiet laugh out of me. Damn her. I don’t laugh. Not like this. She’s too cute.
I cross the room and slide under the covers, careful to keep a full foot of space between us.
The silence stretches.
She turns her head toward me. “You always this quiet?”
I stare at the ceiling. “I’m thinking.”
“About?”
I glance at her.
She’s watching me. Her face half-lit by the low lamp on the nightstand. Freckles soft across her nose. Eyes curious, but not pushing.
“About how fast this escalated,” I admit.
She nods. “Welcome to my life. One minute you’re debugging code, the next you’re fleeing to the mountains with a human Swiss Army knife.”
