"I'm good at what I do."
I drop my head back to his chest, processing. He protected me even while I slept. Even after everything that happened last night, his first instinct was still the mission. Still keeping me safe.
"No regrets?" His voice is carefully neutral.
"About last night?"
"About any of it."
I consider the question seriously. I kissed my bodyguard. I slept in his bed. I told him things I've never told anyone. By any reasonable measure, I've made a series of questionable decisions that would horrify my therapist and probably violate several federal guidelines about witness protection.
"No regrets," I say. "You?"
"I should have regrets."
"But?"
"I don't." His hand traces patterns on my back, absent and soothing. "I keep waiting to feel like I made a mistake. It's not happening."
"Maybe because it wasn't a mistake."
"Maybe."
We lie there in comfortable silence, the world outside the cabin still quiet. I could stay here forever. Wrapped in warmth and safety, the constant fear that's been my companion for six weeks finally quiet.
"We should get up." He says it without conviction.
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
"What's the training schedule for today?" I ask.
"I was thinking we take a break from formal training. You've pushed hard all week. Your body needs recovery time."
"So no running? No shooting? No you throwing me around the living room?"
"I didn't throw you. I demonstrated controlled takedowns."
"Felt like throwing."
His chest rumbles with what might be a laugh. "Fine. I threw you. Gently."
"There's no gentle way to hit the floor, Deck."
"There is if you fall correctly. Which you now do."
I smile against his shirt. This easy banter is new. Different from the charged tension of the past week. Like we've crossed some threshold and found solid ground on the other side.
"If we're not training, what are we doing today?"
"Whatever you want. Within reason and security parameters."
"That's very generous of you."
"I'm a generous person."
"You're really not."
