“Iamthinking straight. That’s the problem.” I check the drone diagnostics on my wristpad. “And I’m not letting them take her. Not now.”
Another silence.
Then, grudging, “Fine. Just… be smart.”
I kill the line.
Outside, the world is still dark. I take the small defensive drones—two in plain sight, two cloaked—and plant them at key points. Rooftop. Alleyway. Vents. All of them linked to me. My eyes, my hands, my fury.
Back inside, I replace the compad on her dresser with one I modded myself—looks identical, works better, can’t be traced. I tuck the old one into my belt.
She doesn’t need to know.
She’s already got too much spinning in that beautiful head.
When I walk back into the kitchen, she’s there.
And I stop breathing.
She’s wearing my shirt—half-buttoned, sleeves hanging past her hands. Bare legs, wild hair. She’s standing barefoot, pouring coffee like it’s a sacred ritual.
Her back’s to me at first. Then she turns.
And smiles.
It hits like a punch to the ribs. Not hard. Just sudden.
“Morning,” she says, voice still scratchy with sleep.
I grunt. It’s all I can manage.
She pads over, mug in hand. “You’re armored up already?”
“Didn’t sleep much.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Because of the sex or the surveillance?”
“Both,” I admit.
She snorts, handing me the mug. “At least you’re honest.”
I sip. Bitter. Hot. Perfect. “Always.”
She leans against the counter, watching me. “You fixed my compad.”
“You noticed?”
“You used the wrong wallpaper. I had a pic of us at the fair.”
I grunt again. “Noted.”
She steps closer, one foot between mine. “You always like this when you’re worried?”
“How do you know I’m worried?”
“You installed two drones on the fire escape. I watched from the window.”
I blink. “You were awake?”
