“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
My stomach sank, but I didn’t argue, I just crossed the living area into my bedroom. I stopped in the doorway for several minutes, staring at the clean room. Regret was hiding somewhere; he had run for cover the minute the scuffle started. I knew he’d come out soon, but I wished he would do it now, so I could tell him goodbye.
“I’m sorry,” Halo said from behind me.
“For what?” I asked, eyes stinging as I settled on my bed and threw the covers over my body. “Saving my life?”
“For ruining this place for you.”
I watched as he settled into the corner, leaning there with his arms crossed. He looked like a different person in those clothes, like someone who actually knew how to relax.
“You can sleep by me,” I said. “There’s an extra pillow.”
He stiffened, bristling as though I’d suggested something worse than murder.
I frowned at him. “I’m not going to be able to sleep with you just staring at me all night. I’ll feel better if I know you’re here.”
He hesitated like his own limbs didn’t belong to him, like each step he took toward the bed was a decision he’d regret, but he did move over to the other side. When he lay down beside me, I could feel him bring an aura of tension. Not because I thought he’d hurt me, but because I knew how tightly wound he was. All that violence still simmering just under his skin, like something he was struggling to hold down with both hands. His back was stiff, his body completely still, as if even breathing too deeply might set something off.
I let the silence stretch between us, thick and strange and oddly comforting. We lay back to back for several minutes before I reached back with my foot, brushing his calf with my toes. He didn’t resist or pull away. To my surprise, he slowly rolled over, and his hand found the curve of my waist. Warm, steady. Not possessive or suggestive… just there like an anchor.
I exhaled slowly, and then I felt something unmistakably solid pressed against me.
Oh.
I bit my lip, trying not to smile.
“You really brought your gun to bed?” I asked, keeping my voice dry and innocent.
“No,” he said, and I could hear the grit in his voice as he snapped out each word, “I did not bring my gun to bed.”
I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop the laugh, but it still escaped: soft and uncontrollable and completely real. My whole body shook with it.
Halo groaned behind me, and not in a pleased way. “Jesus.”
“Sorry,” I whispered, still laughing. “It’s just... it’s been a long night. If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, his hand flexing slightly against my waist. “And now you’re laughing at me with a hard-on and PTSD.”
That only made me laugh harder.
“Careful. Safety’s off…” he grumbled.
“Did you just make a joke?” I asked, on the verge of tears with laughter.
He was quiet for a long moment after that, and I was kind of worried I’d pushed too far, but then I felt the slow rise and fall of his chest, the tension bleeding out of his body, and the unmistakable sound of him exhaling a little chuff that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close.
It felt like a small miracle.
“Can I ask you something?” I said, voice quieter now, the laughter still warm in my chest but fading into something else.
His voice was warm against the back of my neck. “You can always ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”
I smiled despite myself. “Where did ‘Halo’ come from? That’s not your real name, is it?”
He was quiet for a long moment. I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me, but then he sighed reluctantly. “Back when I was still wearing a uniform,” he said, voice low, “they had a name for me. A lot of us had code names. Mine was an acronym. HALO: Hostile Acquisition and Lethal Operations. Black bag shit. The kind they’d deny in front of Congress, even if my body was still cooling at their feet.”
