I curled my arms around his shoulders, let him bury his face in my neck, and for the first time in days, I didn’t feel like I was falling.
“You’re safe,” he whispered again. “I’ve got you. Every part of you.”
Afterward, we lay tangled together, his arm around me, my head on his chest. I could feel his heartbeat gradually slowing, could hear the quiet rhythm of his breathing. The morning light filtered through his curtains, painting everything in soft gold.
"Thank you," I whispered against his skin.
His arm tightened around me. "For what?"
"For holding me. For seeing me. For..." I struggled to find the words. "For making me feel like I don't have to carry everything alone."
He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "You don't. Not anymore."
We dozed in the warm bubble of his bed, wrapped around each other like we could keep the rest of the world at bay through sheer force of will. For those few hours, it felt possible. It felt like maybe Cap was right — maybe I did deserve to be happy.
Maybe this was what that looked like.
chapter
twenty-two
I wokeup to the feeling that the world had fundamentally shifted on its axis overnight.
The early afternoon light was filtering through my blackout curtains in thin golden lines, painting everything in my bedroom with a soft, warm glow. But it wasn't the light that felt different — it was everything else. The air itself seemed charged with possibility, heavy with the weight of what had happened between us just hours before.
Izzy was still asleep beside me, her back to me, her breathing deep and even. Her dark hair was fanned across my pillow, catching the light, and I could see the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the sheet. She looked peaceful in a way I'd never seen before — not the controlled calm of Lieutenant Delgado, but the soft vulnerability of someone who had finally allowed herself to rest.
I lay there for a long time, just watching her, trying to process the magnitude of what had shifted between us. This wasn't just a relationship milestone, wasn't just another step in the progression of dating someone new. This was something else entirely.
Last night, I had witnessed the strongest, most self-contained person I'd ever known completely fall apart andtrust me to be her safe harbor. And she wasn't weak for it — she was incredibly, impossibly brave. She had let me see her at her most vulnerable, had allowed me to hold her pain and help carry it, even if just for a few hours.
I thought about the way she'd felt in my arms, the way she'd looked at me when I'd asked what would make her happy. The way she'd surrendered control — not because she was weak, but because she trusted me enough to be strong for both of us when she couldn't be strong for herself.
The weight of that trust was both humbling and terrifying. I was no longer just her boyfriend, no longer just some guy she was dating. I had become something more essential — her primary emotional support during one of the worst crises of her life. The responsibility of that felt enormous, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. She had chosen me. Of all the people in her carefully controlled world, she had chosen to let me in.
I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could, not wanting to wake her. She needed the sleep, needed the peace of not having to think about Cap's decline or the weight of command or any of the hundred other burdens she carried. For these few hours, I could let her just be Izzy, not Lieutenant Delgado.
In the kitchen, I started the coffee and pulled out my sourdough starter, already planning something special. This morning called for more than toast and scrambled eggs. This morning deserved thick-cut French toast made from bread I'd baked myself, crispy bacon, fresh berries. A meal that saidI'm taking care of youwithout having to speak the words aloud.
As I mixed the custard for the French toast — eggs, cream, vanilla, a touch of cinnamon — I found myself smiling for no reason other than pure contentment. My apartment felt different with her in it, warmer somehow, more like home than it had ever felt when it was just mine.
I had the bacon sizzling in the pan and the first pieces of French toast browning in the skillet when I heard her footsteps on the hardwood floor.I turned to see her padding into the kitchen wearing one of my t-shirts and nothing else, her hair tousled from sleep, looking soft and beautiful and completely at ease in my space.
"Good morning," she said, her voice still rough with sleep.
"Good morning," I replied, reaching for the coffee pot. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I have in a while." She accepted the mug I handed her, inhaling the steam with a satisfied sigh. "You know exactly how I like my coffee."
"Lucky guess," I said, though it wasn't luck at all. I'd been paying attention from the first time I'd made her coffee in this kitchen, cataloging the details of what made her happy.
She hopped up onto the counter beside the stove, the same spot where she'd sat that first night when she'd driven me crazy just by existing in my space. But this morning felt different. This morning, she belonged here.
"French toast?" she asked, watching me flip the golden slices.
"Sourdough French toast," I corrected. "With fresh berries and real maple syrup. You deserve better than frozen waffles and coffee for breakfast."
"You're going to spoil me," she said, but she was smiling, and there was something in her voice that sounded like wonder, like she couldn't quite believe someone wanted to take care of her this way.
