She fought it. Stiff in my arms, every muscle rigid, pride screaming at her to shove me away and retreat to her bed where she could fall apart alone like she always had.
She lasted about thirty seconds.
Then something broke. A sound against my shoulder — small, wrecked, furious. Her whole body shuddered with it. Charlie Collins, who stared down threats and climbed buildingsand never let anyone see her flinch, was crying into my shirt and hating every second of it.
I held her tighter. Didn't speak. Didn't move except to pull the blanket over both of us when the shivering started. She cried the way she did everything else — fiercely, like she was angry at herself for needing it.
It didn't last long. Maybe five minutes. Then her breathing started to even out and her fists uncurled against my chest, fingers spreading flat.
"Dominic?"
"Yeah?"
"If you tell anyone about this, I will end your career."
"Understood."
Her body relaxed against mine, one degree at a time. After a while her weight shifted. Not fighting it anymore, just letting go because her body had decided for her.
I stayed awake.
The apartment settled into its nighttime sounds: pipes groaning, refrigerator humming, the old building shifting on its bones. I ran the plate numbers in my head. Cross-referenced the description with Walsh's profile. Built timelines. Drew connections.
And I held her.
This was going to cost me. Not the job. I'd made peace with that when I kissed her in the Conservatory. The clean exit. The ability to hand off the file and walk away when the assignment ended.
I'd held her instead of taking what she offered, and it had cost me more than the couch, more than three sleepless nights. Because now she was asleep against my chest and I couldn't imagine the version of this where I left.
Chapter Five
Charlie
Iwoke up warm.
That was the first warning sign. My apartment ran cold in February -—drafty windows, ancient radiator, a place where you slept in socks and a hoodie and still woke up shivering. But I wasn't shivering. I was tucked against Dominic's chest, my cheek pressed to his shirt, my fingers curled into the fabric at his ribs, one of his arms heavy around my shoulders. His heartbeat was steady under my ear, and I'd slept better in the last six hours than I had in weeks.
I'd fallen asleep on him. After the car attack, the adrenaline crash, the moment I'd reached for him and he'd caught my wrists and held me instead -—I'd broken apart like a cheap lock and passed out against his shoulder like it was the safest place in the world. And apparently, I hadn't moved all night. Hadn't retreated to my own bed. Hadn't put a wall between us. I'd just... stayed.
Which was exactly the problem.
I extracted myself in stages. Careful. Quiet. Easing out from under his arm, sliding my legs off the cushions, holding my breath like a burglar in reverse. He didn't move. Didn't open his eyes. I padded to the bathroom on bare feet, closed the door, and leaned my back against it.
My reflection in the mirror looked wrecked. Not the fun kind. The kind that came from crying into a man's shoulder after he refused to have sex with you because your hands were shaking.
