"Inappropriate," I manage. It's the only defense I have left.
Ivan's mouth tightens, then his voice changes.
Not command. Not cold. Just tired.
"Please."
The word hits harder than any order.
It doesn't belong in his mouth. It doesn't belong in our structure. And he says it anyway, as if stripping something off himself to get it out.
My throat closes.
I move.
I cross to the bed, take off my shoes, and slide under the covers. The mattress dips around me, soft where the chair is hard, and my body reacts with a near-sick relief. My muscles unclench.
The pillow smells like cedar.
Ivan doesn't get in beside me.
He walks to the chair by the door.
And he sits down.
Taking the place I've held for so long, I can picture the imprint my body made in the leather.
Guarding me.
"Sleep," he says quietly. "I'm here."
My eyes close before I can fight it.
Exhaustion pours through me, thick and immediate. I feel myself sinking, and I hate it—hate how quickly I give in once my body realizes it's allowed.
My bandaged hands rest on his sheets. My fingers twitch once, reaching without permission.
I hear Ivan shift in the chair, a soft creak. His breathing steadies.
The last thing I register is that sound—the steady rhythm of him staying awake on purpose, just as I've done for him, except he's doing it for me.
And my body unclenches around it.
I fall.
13
IVAN
He sleepslike a man who has forgotten how to be afraid.
It shouldn't be possible. Not after the week we've had. Not after gunfire and blood, after the file, after the gym, after the way he looked at me when he had me pinned and then retreated back into that polished emptiness, like slamming a vault door.
But here he is—breathing deep and steady, his mouth slightly parted in a way I've never seen when he's awake. His eyelashes cast faint, curved shadows on his cheeks in the thin morning light. His hands are loose, fingers resting open against the sheets. One is tucked under the pillow, the other resting on the mattress as if he forgot to keep it close to a weapon.
My bed fits him.
That fact irritates me. It should look wrong. It should feel like a violation of the space I've kept sterile for years. Instead, it seems like he's been here longer than twelve hours. It feels like he belongs here.
