Heat floods through me despite the cold mist. "That's not tactical."
"No." His forehead drops to rest against mine, the intimate gesture stealing my breath. "That's territorial and primal and completely inappropriate for everything we're supposed to be doing right now. But I can't seem to care about appropriate when you're standing here in the rain looking like you're about to shatter."
"I can't figure out how to stop." My confession breaks on a sound that might be a sob. "How to stop being Nocturne, how to stop performing, how to stop feeling like I'm seconds away from falling apart. All this time holding everything together, and now that I'm out, now that someone is actually listening, I can't remember how to be anything except the mask."
"Then let me help." His other hand releases mine on the railing, sliding around my waist to pull me flush against him. "Let me give you somewhere safe to fall apart. Let me show you that you don't have to be Nocturne right now, that you can just be Marissa, and that's enough."
The warmth of his body against mine cuts through the cold mist, grounding me in sensation rather than spiraling thoughts. His heart beats beneath my palm where it rests against his bare chest, the rhythm solid and certain and real in a way nothing else has felt since Vienna.
"I'm afraid," I whisper against his shoulder. "Afraid that if I let go, if I stop controlling everything, I'll break in ways I can't fix."
"Then break." His hand traces up my spine, devastating in its tenderness. "Break here, with me, where you're safe. Break and let me help you put the pieces back together."
Permission fractures something inside me, the certainty in his voice suggesting breaking isn't failure but release. All this time holding everything together, being what everyone needed me to be, never showing weakness or vulnerability or fear—it all collapses in the space between one breath and the next.
I press closer in his arms, seeking warmth and solidity and the promise that I don't have to be strong right now. His arms come around me immediately, holding me tight enough that I feel contained rather than trapped and safe enough that the tears I've been holding back finally break free.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my hair, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other stays firm at my waist. "I've got you, and I'm not letting go."
Tears come harder, the long accumulating grief and fear and moral compromise pouring out in ugly, gasping sobs. He doesn't try to stop them, doesn't tell me it's okay or that everything willbe fine. He just holds me, unwavering and certain, while I fall apart against his chest.
Eventually the storm subsides, leaving me wrung out in his arms. My face is probably a disaster, swollen and blotchy, but he doesn't seem to care. His hand continues tracing patterns on my back, soothing and grounding, while rain mists around us.
"Come inside," he says quietly. "You're freezing."
The cold has finally penetrated through the emotional storm. He guides me back through the balcony doors into my room, warmth immediately shocking against my chilled skin. Without pausing, he leads me through the connecting door into his room.
His bed is unmade, evidence that he's been as restless as I have. Tactical gear sits neatly organized on the desk, weapons and communications equipment ready for tomorrow's operation.
But none of that matters right now. Right now, there's just the two of us standing in the space between his bed and the balcony doors, rain-soaked and depleted and raw.
"Marissa." My name on his lips sounds different than when anyone else says it. Not Nocturne, not the operative, just me. "Tell me what you need."
What I need should be simple to articulate. But what I need scares me more than anything the Iron Choir could do. I need to stop thinking, to stop controlling, to stop being the one who holds everything together. I need to surrender, to let someone else carry the weight for even a handful of hours.
I need him.
"I need to not be in control right now," I whisper, the admission scraping past every defensive instinct I've developed. "I need to stop thinking and planning and being the one who makes all the decisions. I need—" Breaking off, uncertain how to articulate what I'm asking for.
Understanding flickers across his features. "You need to let go."
"Yes." Relief floods through me at being understood without having to explain further. "But the skill has atrophied. I've been in control for so long, surrender feels impossible."
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with devastating care. "Then let me show you." His voice drops into darker territory, more commanding. "Let me take control so you don't have to. Let me give you permission to stop holding everything together."
Heat coils low in my belly at the shift in his tone, at the promise implicit in his words. This isn't about seduction or performance. This is about need, raw and genuine, the kind that strips away pretense and leaves only truth.
"Yes," I breathe, and the single word feels like jumping off a cliff.
His expression shifts, dominance settling into his features with instinctive ease. "Get on the bed."
Command is quiet but absolute. I move without questioning, crossing to his bed and sitting on the edge. My hands want to fidget, to find purchase, but I force them still in my lap.
He follows slowly, each movement deliberate and controlled. "All the way on. Back against the headboard."
I shift up the bed, settling against the pillows with my back to the headboard. Vulnerability washes through me, exposed in ways that have nothing to do with physical safety. He climbs onto the bed, kneeling between my legs, his presence commanding the space.
"Look at me." His hand comes up to tilt my chin when my gaze tries to drop. "Eyes on me, Marissa. When you're with me like this, I need to see you."
