But for now, his skin was warm against mine, his breath stirring my hair, his hand making those same slow circles on my back.
For now, I could stay.
So I did.
I closed my eyes and let my body relax into his, let my hand come to rest on his chest, just above his heart. Let myself have this—just this—without counting reasons or thinking about what it meant.
It meant I was here. He was here. And for tonight, at least, that was enough.
“Okay,” I said, the word barely more than a breath.
His arm tightened around me, just enough to acknowledge he’d heard, and then we settled into silence again—not quite comfortable, not quite fragile, but something in between. Something that felt, impossibly, like it might be worth coming back to.
Chapter Three
~ Cruz ~
I woke before him, the way I always did. Five-thirty, the room was still dark except for the thin line of gray light cutting between the curtains. Jackson was solid against my side, one arm flung across my chest, his breathing slow and even.
I didn’t move. Didn’t want to risk waking him when we’d finally fallen asleep sometime after two, his head on my chest, my hand still in his hair.
I’d gotten better at staying still in bed. Six months ago, I would have been up the moment my eyes opened—body in motion before my brain caught up, the product of too many years sleeping in places where stillness meant death. But something about having Jackson beside me made it easier to lie there, watching the light change, memorizing details I’d carry with me when I left.
The sharp line of his jaw, even in sleep. The small scar at his temple I’d noticed the first night and traced with my tongue the second. The way his hair fell across his forehead when he slept on his back, how it curled just slightly at the ends when it was damp from the shower. The weight of him, solid muscle that relaxed completely when he finally let go.
The silver bracelet already sitting on the nightstand where I’d placed it the night before, because I’d learned early that he couldn’t sleep with anything on his wrists.
I’d memorized all of it—the physical details, the way he took his coffee, the exact moment his expression shifted when he was thinking instead of just reacting.
I’d filed it all away, the same way I’d memorized room layouts and exit strategies and the safe combination to an arms dealer’s office in Damascus. Habit, maybe. Or something else I wasn’t ready to name.
When I was sure he was deep enough in sleep that the mattress shifting wouldn’t wake him, I eased away from his side, keeping my movements slow and controlled. He stirred, one hand reaching for me in the space I’d left, but didn’t wake.
The room was cold—I’d turned the heat down before we fell asleep, the two of us generating enough body heat to keep the bed plenty warm—and I grabbed the sweatpants I’d left on the chair, pulling them on without turning on a light. I’d gotten good at navigating unfamiliar spaces in the dark.
The desk phone was where I’d left it the night before. I picked up the receiver and dialed the number for room service I’d memorized from the hotel directory, keeping my voice low when they answered.
“Room 412. I’d like to order breakfast.” I rattled off the order—eggs, toast, coffee, fruit—without looking at the menu. I’d already decided what Jackson would want based on the three hotel breakfasts we’d shared before.
“Twenty minutes,” the voice on the other end said, and I hung up, glancing at the bed to make sure Jackson was still asleep.
He was, one arm now stretched across the space where I’d been, his face turned toward the empty side of the bed. Something in my chest twisted at the sight, a feeling I wasn’t going to examine before coffee.
I moved to the bathroom, closing the door behind me before turning on the light. The mirror showed a man who’d slept maybe four hours—dark circles under my eyes, stubble along my jaw, hair standing up on one side where Jackson’s hand had been. I looked like I’d been thoroughly fucked, which I had, and like I’d enjoyed it, which I definitely had.
I showered fast—two minutes under hot water, another thirty seconds of cold to shock my system awake—then dried off and dressed in the clothes I’d laid out the night before:jeans, Henley, boots, the same outfit I’d wear if I was heading to the airport or a firefight. The only difference was the gun I’d normally have strapped to my hip was in the safe in my bag.
Packing took another two minutes—toiletries rolled into the spare shirt at the bottom of the bag, laptop and charger in the padded pocket, the small wooden box wrapped carefully in a T-shirt and placed where it wouldn’t get crushed. I zipped the bag and set it by the door, then checked the time.
Eighteen minutes since I’d called. Room service would be here in two.
Jackson was still sleeping when I slipped back into the bedroom, but he stirred as I moved around, gathering his clothes from where they’d landed the night before and folding them into a neat stack on the chair.
His eyes opened when I set his boots by the door, tracking my movement across the room with the kind of alertness that came from years of sleeping with one eye open.
“You’re dressed,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. He pushed himself up against the headboard, the sheet pooling around his waist, leaving his chest bare.
I nodded, moving to the coffee maker in the corner of the room. “Food’s ready,” I said, keeping my voice flat, my face neutral. I’d learned the hard way what happened when I stopped managing my expression around Jackson—how my eyes lingered on the curve of his shoulder, how my mouth softened when he laughed, how something in my chest went tight when he looked at me a certain way.
