“Suspicion of what?”
Silence. There it is again. The wall. I move before I think too hard about it. One step. Now we’re inside conversational distance. She doesn’t retreat. Interesting.
“You’re not asking to go back for safety,” I say.
“No.”
“You’re asking because you have something to finish.”
She holds my gaze.
“Yes.”
There’s no tremor or hesitation in it. Whatever she’s involved in, she chose to walk into it. I study her face at this distance. The faint line where sleep creased her cheek. The way her pulse beats steady at her throat. The absence of fear in her posture.
She’s not reckless. She’s committed.
“You were trained,” I say.
Not a question.
Her breath shifts just enough for me to catch it.
“That’s an assumption.”
“It’s an assessment.”
I let my hand rise slowly. Not sudden or forced. I brush a stray strand of hair from her temple. Her body doesn’t flinch. But the air thickens.
“You use proximity like a tool,” I continue quietly.
“Do I?” she murmurs.
“Yes.”
“And what are you doing?”
Turning it back, I step closer until there’s no space left to close.
“If I take you back,” I say, my voice lower now, “I fly into whatever you’re not telling me.”
“That’s correct.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You compromise more than me.”
There it is. Leverage. She’s playing the board. But she doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I. My thumb rests briefly at the line of her jaw. Her skin is warm. Alive. Not calculating in this moment.
Something shifts inside my chest — not tactical. Not strategic.
Protective. Possessive. Permanent.
That realization hits harder than the satellite directive. She’s dangerous. Not because of what she’s hiding. Because I don’t want to hand her back to it.
“You want me to break orders,” I say quietly.
