"I'll take center and left," Quentin whispered. "You sweep right, then we clear the kitchen and hallway before the bedrooms and bathrooms."
I nodded, adrenaline sharp in my veins. The living room was clear. Nothing out of place. The few lights I'd left on cast familiar shadows.
Kitchen—empty.
Hallway—clear.
"Guest room first?" I whispered.
"Office," he corrected, remembering the layout from my file.
We moved together, a synchronized dance of survival. The office was easy—no closet, glass-top desk, nowhere to hide.
Guest bathroom—clear.
That left my bedroom.
Quentin paused at the closed door, met my eyes. "Stay behind me."
I nodded, positioning myself at an angle where I could see but wouldn't be in his way.
"On three," he said. "I go high. If the room is clear, I take the closet, you watch the bathroom door."
"Got it."
"One. Two. Three." He turned the knob, pushed the door open, took a firing stance with his Glock extended.
The room was empty.
Quentin moved to the closet while I kept my eyes on the bathroom door, ready to shout a warning if anything moved.
He mouthed a countdown.One. Two. Three.
He yanked the closet open. I pushed the bathroom door wide. Both empty. Just my robe hanging on the hook, toiletries on the counter, shower curtain open and innocent.
"Clear!" Quentin called from the bedroom.
"All clear," I echoed.
For a moment, we just stood there, his weapon ready, my heart still pounding.
Then the adrenaline began to fade, leaving exhaustion and something else in its wake.
Relief.
We were alive.
Safe.
Together.
"I need a minute." My voice shook more than I wanted. "That was—"
"Terrifying."
"Yeah."
Quentin holstered his weapon, closed the distance between us. "You did good tonight. Really good. Most people would have panicked."
