"CJ is activating the troops. They need a day to organize. We’ll meet up with them in the morning."
"What do we do until then?"
"Our orders are to rest and recuperate."
"Rest and recuperate?"
"Yeah." He reaches over and squeezes my thigh. "First, we’ll replace your laptop, then we’ll find a motel close to LA, clean up, eat something, and rest."
After a quick stop to pick up a new computer, grab a change of clothes, and other things, Sawyer finds a motel an hour north of LA. The kind of place that takes cash and doesn't ask questions. Two stories of peeling paint and broken dreams, but it's off-grid and has multiple exits. Sawyer secured us a room while I waited in the SUV, baseball cap pulled low.
"Teams arrive tomorrow," he says, closing the door behind us. "That gives us a few hours."
The room is small—one bed, an ancient TV, and a water stain on the ceiling that looks like a map of somewhere unpleasant. But it's safe, and after what feels like days of running, safe feels like luxury.
I set my new laptop on my lap, needing to keep working, but Sawyer takes it from my hands.
"You need rest."
"I need to finish decrypting?—"
"You need to stop for five minutes." His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "You’re running on adrenaline. You'll be useless you rest."
"I don't know how to stop." The admission comes out broken. "If I stop moving, stop working, I have to think about?—"
"Nathan."
The name hangs between us like a blade.
"Four nights ago, I was in his bed. I thought I knew him. Thought I loved him." Tears burn my eyes. "How did I miss it? How did I share my body with someone capable of mass murder?"
Sawyer pulls me against his chest, and I break. Three days of fear and betrayal pour out in ugly sobs that shake my whole body. He holds me through it, solid and steady, one hand in my hair, the other rubbing circles on my back.
"It's not your fault," he murmurs against my temple. "He was trained to deceive. Three years of deep cover—that's professional-level manipulation."
"But I should have?—"
"No." He pulls back, forces me to meet his eyes. "You trusted someone you had every reason to trust. That's not weakness, that's human."
"I'll never trust anyone again."
"You trust me."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "You’re different."
"Why?"
"Because you bled for me before you knew my name. Because you saved me. Because you've had a dozen chances to betray me and haven't."
"Or maybe," his voice drops, rough and warm, "because sometimes you know. Sometimes you meet someone and every instinct says 'this one, this is real.'"
The air between us charges. We're so close I can see the gold flecks in his gray eyes, feel his breath on my lips.
"Sawyer..."
"I know." His forehead rests against mine. "Wrong time, wrong place, wrong everything."
"But right person?"
