I lean down, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, careful of the sling. I hold him. Just hold him. The heat of him seeps through the flannel, grounding me. I calculate the probability of this moment lasting forever.
It’s impossible.
But the probability of us making it last a lifetime?
High.
“Let’s go,” I whisper.
“Where?”
“Your place. A bed with a good mattress. A place where nobody shoots at us, and Torque isn’t eating all the snacks.”
He looks up. A slow, tired smile spreads across his face. It reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. “That sounds like a solid tactical plan.”
“I’m an analyst. I make good tactical plans.”
He stands, wincing slightly, leaning on me. We walk toward the door together. Not protector and principal. Not asset and operator.
Partners.
“After,” he says.
“After,” I agree.
We walk out of the War Room, leaving the ghosts behind.
TWENTY-FOUR
Talia
THE AFTER
Jackson’s quartersare exactly what I expect—sparse, masculine, scrupulously organized.
The bed is made tight and exact, corners squared, sheets pulled flat without a wrinkle in sight. A single leather chair sits nearby, worn by the weight of a man who doesn’t sleep well.
No photos. No clutter. Just a space designed for resting between wars.
The rain drums against the window, a soft, steady rhythm that seals us in. The door clicks shut, cutting off the hum of the command center, the chatter of the team, the noise of the world.
Silence settles. It’s heavy, but not oppressive. It feels like an exhale held for years.
“Sit,” I say, guiding him toward the small leather sofa in the corner. “You look gray.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re swaying. That’s a vestibular response to exhaustion.”
He doesn’t argue. He sinks onto the leather cushions with a heavy exhale, his head tipping back against the wall. His eyes slip shut for a second, the lashes dark against his pale skin, before snapping back to me. He watches me as I move through the room.
I need to do something. If I stop moving, I have to acknowledge that the mission is over. I have to admit my skin feels tight, and that my blood is still humming with a fight-or-flight rhythm that has nowhere to go.
I turn on a low lamp. Amber light pools in the corner, softening the hard angles of his face. I check the thermostat—too cool. I bump it up two degrees. I find the kitchenette—clean counter, single mug in the sink.
I fill a glass with water. I locate a throw blanket in a cabinet.
“Talia.” His voice is a rumble, low and tired.
