That’s when I knew. I wasn’t protecting her.
I was choosing her.
***
The house settles into silence the way old places do—slowly, reluctantly, as if every wall and hallway needs time to remember it’s supposed to be quiet.
I stand on the small balcony outside the guest room, towel slung low around my waist, forearms braced against the railing. The night air is cool against skin still warm from the shower, carrying the faint scent of pine and distant rain. Somewhere inside, King is probably already snoring like a freight train. Will is likely staring at the ceiling, replaying every word said tonight until dawn pries his eyes shut. And me?
I’m thinking about a girl who just walked upstairs without looking at me.
Again.
Water drips from my hair onto my shoulders, sliding down my back in slow trails. I rake a hand through it and exhale hard enough to fog the dark.
Get it together.
Tonight wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about us. It was about survival. About truth. About fallout that hasn’t even finished landing yet. It was about Mikhail in chains, Delilah’s parents finally seeing the shape of the world she disappeared into, and the kind of damage that doesn’t stop just because the gunfire does.
And yet…
I can’t stop seeing the way she looked when she broke in the middle of that room. How she still reached for me. How she trusted me when everything else was collapsing. I can’t stop hearing her voice snapping across the ballroom, taking command while half the room was still trying to understand they were under attack. I can’t stop thinking about the way she sankinto my chest afterward like I was the only place left that felt real.
I lean my forehead against the cool metal railing.
Goddamn it.
A soft knock sounds behind me.
I freeze.
Not because I don’t know who it is.
Because I do.
I straighten slowly, heart picking up pace in a way it has no business doing, and turn toward the door.
Another knock. Hesitant. Almost apologetic.
“Jon?” Her voice slips through the wood. Quiet. Careful. Tired in a way that scratches something low in my chest.
I swallow.
“Yeah,” I answer. “It’s open.”
The handle turns.
The door creaks.
And then she’s there.
Delilah stands in the doorway in one of her old sleep shirts—soft, oversized, slipping off one shoulder. Bare legs. Bare feet. Hair loose and still a little damp like she showered not long ago too. She looks small in the frame of the door and impossibly strong at the same time, like she always does. Like she’s one breath away from breaking and still somehow the most dangerous thing in the room.
Her eyes flick to my chest.
Then lower.
Then back up to my face.
