She looked at me. Held my gaze longer than she needed to. Whatever she was deciding, she decided it.
"Okay," she said. "We do this our way."
HER APARTMENT FELTsmaller at night. Same locks, same blinds, same routine — but tonight the walls felt closer, the silence heavier.
I checked the windows. Checked the fire escape. Set my phone on the counter with Cass's number one tap away. Charlie sat on the couch with her legs tucked under her and a mug of tea she wasn't drinking.
The adrenaline crash was hitting. I could see it in the way her hands wouldn't stay still, picking at the mug handle, adjusting the blanket, pulling at a loose thread on the cushion. She'd locked everything down in the SUV like she always did: compartmentalized, kept moving. But there was nowhere to move now. Just the apartment and the silence and the fact that someone had tried to hurt her today and she couldn't outrun it by climbing a fire escape or hiding behind a dessert cart.
I sat beside her. Not touching. Close enough that she could feel the warmth if she wanted it.
"I'm fine," she said.
"I know."
"I've dealt with worse."
"I know that too."
"I don't need —" She stopped. Her jaw worked. Slight, barely visible, but I'd been trained to read bodies in combat zones and hers was running on fumes and adrenaline.
She set down the tea and reached for me.
Not the way she'd reached for me at the Conservatory. Hungry, reckless, pulling me toward her with both hands and no plan. This was different. Her fingers found the front of my shirt and curled into the fabric, and she pulled herself closer, pressing against my chest, her mouth finding my jaw, my neck. Her breathing was wrong. Too fast, too shallow, more adrenaline than desire.
She kissed my throat. Her hands slid under my shirt, fingers cool against my stomach, and she tried to climb into my lap.
I wanted her. Same as the first night, same as every night since: immediate, consuming, the kind of want that made discipline feel like a joke.
But her fingers were cold. Ice-cold against my stomach, and unsteady.
She wasn't reaching for me because she wanted me. She was reaching because she was scared and she wanted to feel something other than afraid.
I caught her wrists. Gently.
"Not like this."
She flinched. "What?"
"Not like this, Charlie."
She tried to pull her wrists free. Her eyes were bright — anger and embarrassment fighting for dominance. "I'm fine. I want this. I want —"
"I know what you want." I held her wrists, thumbs resting on her pulse points. Both racing. "And I want you. Every part ofme wants you right now. But your hands are shaking and your breathing's wrong, and this isn't desire driving you. It's fear."
"Don't tell me what I'm feeling."
"I'm not. I'm telling you what I see." I loosened my grip but didn't let go. "You've been terrified since that box showed up this morning. You held it together through Travis, through the case work, through someone trying to kill us with a car. You held it together because that's what you do — you push through, you keep moving, you don't stop. But you've stopped now. And the fear's catching up."
"So what?" Her voice cracked. "What if it is fear? What's wrong with wanting to feel anything other than —"
"Nothing's wrong with it." I brought her wrists together, pressing her palms flat against my heartbeat. "But I'm not going to be the thing you use to run from it."
Her jaw worked. She blinked hard, looked away, looked back — and the fight drained out of her face all at once. What replaced it was worse. Raw. Open. Someone caught without her armor who didn't know how to exist without it.
She tried to pull away. I didn't let her.
I shifted on the couch, pulled her against me, and wrapped both arms around her. Not a kiss. Not foreplay. Just holding her. My chin on top of her head, her face tucked into my shoulder, my arms tight enough that she couldn't pretend this wasn't happening.
