"Understood," I echo, matching his tone.
Fitz studies us both for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, but he moves on to tactical details. Positioning. Communication protocols. Emergency contingencies. The briefing stretches for hours, covering every possible scenario, every threat we might face.
By the time Fitz dismisses us, evening has fallen outside the cottage windows. The hours that felt both too long and not long enough have brought us to the edge of what comes next.
I head to my workstation and pull out the photograph Laurent gave me. Amelie smiles up at me, wind catching her dark hair, crystal bracelets gleaming on her small wrist.Amelie Marie Laurent.Six years old. Loves the ocean.
I trace the edge of the photograph, grounding myself in what matters. This child deserves to live. Deserves to grow up safe and loved, not stolen away by an organization that sees her as nothing more than leverage.
My fingers brush the crystal bracelet on my own wrist—a match to the ones Amelie wears, acquired from the safe housesupplies. Laurent's identifier. The detail that confirms we have his daughter and not some substitute the Iron Choir arranged.
"Marissa."
Archer's voice comes from behind me, quiet and careful. I don't turn around.
"About yesterday," he continues.
"Save it," I say, keeping my voice level. "We have a job to do. That's what matters."
"It's not all that matters."
"Tomorrow we protect Amelie. Focus on that."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. Doesn't explain. Just nods once, ready to move on.
"I need to do final gear check," I say. "You should probably do the same."
I move past him toward the tactical armory on the lower level. He doesn't follow, and I'm grateful for the space. Grateful I don't have to see regret in his eyes and fight the part of me that aches to forgive him.
I pull my vest from the rack and go through the motions of checking my gear, letting muscle memory take over while my mind circles everything I can't fix between us.
I'm adjusting the final vest strap when I notice another vest laid out on my station. It's men's size, perfectly adjusted with the straps set exactly how Archer would wear them, plate carriers positioned precisely, communication gear tested and ready.
His vest on my station.
I reach out and touch the tactical fabric, recognition hitting me immediately. This is his handiwork. He prepared his gear here, at my station, while I was upstairs avoiding him.
The gesture is small, but the meaning lands heavy. He's telling me he trusts me. That whatever doubt Moreau planted, whatever flicker of suspicion crossed his mind, he's choosing totrust me anyway. Choosing to stand beside me at the gala and have my back despite everything.
My throat tightens. I run my fingers over the vest straps he adjusted, imagining his hands performing the familiar motions. Preparing for battle. Preparing to protect me even though I've shut him out.
So I finish my gear check in silence, leaving his vest untouched on my station, and head back upstairs to the bedroom.
The cottage is quiet around me. Logan is monitoring feeds from the ops center. And Archer is somewhere I'm deliberately not looking for him.
I change into sleep clothes and climb into bed on the far side, as far from Archer's side as I can get. The photograph of Amelie sits on the nightstand where I can see it. A reminder of what we're fighting for when the gala begins. Who we're protecting.
Hours pass before the bedroom door opens quietly. Archer enters, moving carefully like he's trying not to disturb me. He settles on his side of the bed, maintaining the distance I established, and the mattress shifts slightly with his weight.
We lie there in the darkness, close enough to touch but separated by everything unsaid between us.
His hand finds mine in the darkness. No words. Just his fingers lacing through mine—solid, certain, claiming.
The gesture says what words can't:I've got you. Tomorrow, we fight together.
Part of me aches to reach for him, to close the distance and let him explain, to believe that we'll come back from the gala alive and whole and find our way back to whatever this was becoming.
But fear is louder than hope right now.
