We’ve been tracing recruitment lines across three counties. Church groups. Volunteer search teams. Veterans’ charities. Names that look harmless on paper.
But every pattern we follow leads somewhere darker.
Someone is building something here.
Something patient.
Something that doesn’t need to move fast to become unstoppable.
By the time evening settles over the safehouse, my head aches from staring at screens.
Boone closes the laptop with a quiet click.
“That’s enough for tonight.”
I rub my eyes. “You say that like the enemy’s going to respect business hours.”
“They won’t,” he says.
Then his voice softens.
“But we still need sleep.”
The room grows quiet.
Not awkward.
Just… aware.
The kind of silence that carries everything we haven’t figured out how to say yet.
Boone studies me for a moment.
Then he says quietly, “Stay with me tonight.”
Not a command.
Not an assumption.
Just a question.
My heart stumbles.
Years ago that question wouldn’t have needed words.
Back then we had been so certain of each other.
Now everything feels fragile.
But I also know something else.
I’m tired of pretending the distance between us still exists.
So instead of answering—
I reach for his hand.
His fingers close around mine immediately, warm and steady, like they’ve been waiting.
