She let out a muffled sob against my mouth, her body vibrating as she shatters. The internal clench of her climax is too much. I groan, a low, guttural sound I can’t suppress, and bury my face in the crook of her neck. I drive into her one last time, emptying myself as the world narrows down to just the sound of our tangled, desperate breathing and the heat of her skin against mine.
I stay heavy on top of her for a long minute, my heart hammering against her ribs. I don’t pull out. I want to feel every lingering twitch of her muscles.
“You didn’t stay quiet,” I rasp, my teeth grazing her skin.
She just shakes her head, her fingers curling into my hair, pulling me closer. She’s still shivering, her breath hitching in the quiet room.
After, we lie tangled together, her back pressed against my chest, my arm draped over her waist. Her breathing slows. Steadies.
“That was—” she starts.
“Yeah.”
“We should do that more often.”
“When we’re not hiding from an AI that wants us dead.”
“Even then.” She threads her fingers through mine. “Especially then.”
I should be running scenarios. Planning contingencies. Calculating the thousand ways the next few weeks could go wrong.
Instead, I’m thinking about Thorne.
About a man who came out of the shadows and killed three people to save strangers. About a little girl named Lily who likes dinosaurs and the color purple and thinks her father is a superhero. About the way his voice changed when he said her name—soft, unguarded, the first human sound from a man who seems made of steel.
I’m just trying to deserve her.
That’s what he said. The mission statement of a man who measures himself against his daughter’s faith in him.
I understand that. The weight of trying to be worthy. The fear of falling short.
For years, I measured myself against Sofia’s death. Against the life I couldn’t save, the son or daughter I’ll never know, and the future I couldn’t protect. Every mission was penance. Every risk was punishment. I didn’t want to survive—I wanted to suffer enough to balance the scales.
Now, lying in a motel room with Cassie’s warmth against my chest, I’m starting to wonder if the scales work differently than I thought.
Maybe it’s not about balancing death with death. Maybe it’s about balancing loss with love.
Cassie is mine.
A woman who should be dead but isn’t. Who found the evidence that could end this. The woman who looks at me like I’m worth surviving for.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s what I was being kept alive for all along.
Either way, I’m still here. She’s still here. And tomorrow, we keep driving west.
A knock at the door. Three sharp raps.
“Rotation.” Thorne’s voice. Flat. Professional. “You’re up.”
I disentangle myself from Cassie without waking her, check the bandage, and pull on my shirt.
When I open the door, Thorne is standing outside. He looks tired—genuinely tired now, the kind of exhaustion he couldn’t hide anymore.
“Anything?” I ask.
“Quiet. One patrol car came through around two. Didn’t stop.” He hands me a cup of coffee—black, still warm. “Grabbed supplies from the vending machine. Not much, but it’ll hold us.”
“Get some rest,” I tell him. “I’ve got the watch. We should be back on the road by five, catch the early hours before traffic picks up. I’ll wake you.”
