Morgan broke first, turning back toward the monitors. “Show me what you’re working on. I want to see Binary in action.”
They spent an hour in the command center. Lincoln walked her through his multiple current projects—some of the security consultations, the vulnerability assessments, the open-source tools he released anonymously because he didn’t need credit, just wanted the problems solved. Morgan asked questions that proved she understood more than most of his federal contacts.
When his stomach growled loudly enough to be embarrassing, she laughed and suggested they find that breakfast he’d promised.
The kitchen felt different with her in it.
Lincoln made eggs while Morgan explored his cabinets with undisguised curiosity. She found the tea he’d ordered—the specific brand she’d mentioned eighteen months ago during an exchange about morning rituals—and went quiet for a long moment before reaching for the kettle.
“You remembered,” she said, not quite a question.
“I ordered it two days ago. After you arrived.” He focused on the eggs, not looking at her. “You said it was the only brand that tasted right. That you’d been drinking it since you were nineteen.”
She was quiet for a moment. “That was eighteen months ago. One line in one conversation.”
“I pay attention.”
He watched her make tea. There was a system to it—specific timing, precise amounts, steps executed in an order that clearly mattered. She finally wrapped both hands around the cup, fingers perfectly symmetrical, and closed her eyes to take the first sip.
Like praying, she’d told him once. He understood now what she’d meant. This wasn’t just drinking tea. This was an anchor. Routine. A small piece of control in a world that kept taking it away.
They talked while they ate. Real things, specific things. Her converted barn apartment with the cats she fed for her elderly landlord. The children’s reading program she’d started at the library. The way small-town Montana could feel like safety and suffocation in equal measure.
He told her about selling his first company at twenty-four, his second at twenty-eight. About the federal agencies that called him when their normal contractors failed. About being the last-resort option—expensive and difficult but effective.
“They don’t like working with me,” he said. “I don’t perform the social parts well.”
“Their loss.” Morgan finished her eggs. “At least with you, I always know exactly where I stand.”
The ease between them felt dangerous. Like something he could get used to. Like something that could be taken away.
“I can’t stay here forever.” Her voice shifted, the warmth fading into something more practical. “I can’t hide in your guest room while my life falls apart somewhere else.”
He set down his fork. “You can’t go back to your apartment yet. Not until we know more about what we’re dealing with.”
Her fingers found the rhythm again, tapping against the counter. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I can’t go home. I can’t stay hidden forever. I’m stuck in this limbo, and I don’t see a way out.”
Lincoln stood, moved around the island, and sat on thestool beside her. Close enough to reach, far enough to give her space.
“You can stay here as long as you need. There’s no timeline. No pressure.” He said it as simply as he could, because simple was all he had to offer. “We’ll figure out what comes next. But you don’t have to figure it out today.”
She looked at him. Her eyes were bright, but she wasn’t crying—just full in a way that suggested tears were close.
“‘Hope is the thing with feathers,’” she quoted softly.
“More Dickinson?”
“She gets me through.” Morgan reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist. “So do you.”
He covered her hand with his, and her sleeve rode up. The bandages were visible now—and beneath them, the parallel lines he’d been trying not to stare at since she arrived. Neat. Systematic. The work of someone who’d known exactly what they were doing.
Something hot and unfamiliar coiled in his chest. He wasn’t a person who felt rage—it was inefficient, clouded judgment, served no practical purpose. But looking at those lines on her skin, he wanted to find whoever had held the knife and make them understand what systematic really meant.
Morgan caught him looking and tugged her sleeve down with her free hand. Not ashamed. Just…not ready.
He forced the anger down. She’d tell him when she could. Pushing would only make her retreat, and right now, she needed safety more than she needed his fury.
They sat like that until her breathing evened out and the tension in her shoulders finally released.
