I woke to sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting gold across the bed, across Sophie's naked back where she lay beside me, face down in the pillow, hair a wild copper tangle that made me smile despite the heaviness settling back into my chest like it had never left, like the night had been a temporary reprieve but morning brought the bill due and I couldn't pay it.
She was still asleep, her breathing deep and even, one arm thrown out like she'd reached for me in the night and found me there, like she trusted I wouldn't leave even in sleep, like she believed in permanence in a way I'd stopped believing in years ago.
I watched her for a long moment, memorizing the way the light played across her skin, the freckles scattered across her shoulders like constellations I wanted to trace with my tongue, the curve of her spine disappearing under the sheet tangled low around her hips, the rise and fall of her ribs with each breath that said she was here, she was real, she was mine.
At least, for now.
God, she was beautiful.
And I was going to break her heart.
The thought settled in my gut like lead, heavy and cold and undeniable, a truth I'd been avoiding all night but couldn't escape in the harsh light of morning.
Because I couldn't tell her about Klein. Couldn't explain why an FBI agent from my past had shown up in Charleston. Couldn't tell her about Dominion Hall and the decision hanging over me, the choice between everything I'd been and everything I could be, between staying in the military and joining something I didn't fully trust yet.
Couldn't drag her into the mess my life had become, the complications I'd accumulated, the enemies I'd somehow made just by existing, just by being a Dane from Valentine with a father who'd disappeared and brothers who'd scattered and a mother who was forgetting me one day at a time.
And I sure as hell couldn't stay.
Not really. Not the way she deserved. Not when everything I touched eventually turned to ash, when everyone who got close to me ended up hurt or disappointed or both.
I'd promised her forever last night. Promised her Paris and Tuscany and someday, painted pictures of a future where we could just be together without the weight of the world pressing down.
But someday was a lie.
A beautiful lie, maybe. The kind you told yourself when you wanted something so badly you could taste it. But a lie, nonetheless.
And I was still a coward.
Just a coward who'd gotten one perfect night with the only woman who'd ever mattered, who'd ever seen me clearly and loved me, anyway.
I reached out slowly, carefully, and brushed a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek for just a second—warm and soft and real—before pulling back like I'd been burned.
Then I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could, every movement careful and deliberate, grabbing my clothes from where they'd been scattered across the floor in our desperate rush last night, and started getting dressed.
My hands shook as I buttoned my shirt.
I should wake her. Should tell her the truth. Should give her the choice instead of making it for her like I always did, likeI'd done twelve years ago when I left Valentine without saying goodbye properly.
But I didn't.
Because staying would only make it hurt worse when I had to leave.
And I always had to leave.
That's what I did best.
Running. Disappearing. Convincing myself it was for the best, that I was protecting people by staying away, that my absence was a gift instead of a betrayal.
I looked back at her one more time and committed it to memory.
Then, I walked out.
Because I was my father's son, after all.
And cowards ran.
24
