Page 139 of Operation: Defiance

He adds it without blinking. “Anything else you used every day? Cleanser? Moisturizer? Makeup?”

“Moisturizer,” I whisper, the answer slipping out before I can measure it. “Unscented. Light.”

He nods, already searching for one that meets the criteria. No commentary, no curiosity—just care.

Shoes come last.

“Soft,” I say. “Nothing with pressure points. Something I can put on without bracing.”

He finds a pair that look stable in a matte black. No laces to fumble with. He tilts the screen a little so I can decide.

“That one. Size nine.”

By the time the order is complete, my chest feels…looser. Enough for me to breathe. To recognize myself again.

Asher sets the laptop aside, then checks his watch.

“Everything will be ready in twenty minutes. We need a few groceries too. If I leave now, I can be back in under an hour.”

A flicker of unease moves through me. I’m not afraid. But I’m not sure I’m ready for him to leave for the first time either. To exist in a space with no expectations.

But I want these things.

I want the version of me who wears them.

Asher

The drive is short, but my body is tuned tight the whole way. Not panicked—just aware. Aware she’s alone. Aware that she asked for what she needed, and is trusting me to carry it.

I pull onto a quiet side street and make a call before I reach the store to add the things she didn’t ask for. Multiples of the shirts, pants, and underwear. Another package of socks—thicker ones. A sleep shirt from the same brand as the leggings. Nothing risky. Just enough that she won’t have to ration herself. The associate confirms they’ll have everything ready when I arrive.

I park where I can see everything. Corners, angles, no blind spots.

Inside, the pickup counter is quiet. The associate brings out four large paper bags. I check the name, the weight—by feel, not by opening anything—and nod my thanks.

Back in the car, I run a hand over one of them.

Her choices.

Her textures.

Her autonomy.

It shouldn’t mean as much as it does.

I stop at a small market a few blocks from the safe house on the way back. Before long, we’ll need a proper grocery order, but until then, I want her to have choices.

Yogurt. Applesauce. Another banana. Oatmeal.

Food that won’t argue with a cautious stomach.

The drive back feels longer. Maybe because I don’t like the idea of her sitting with too much silence. Maybe because I want to put these into her hands. Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, this job isn’t just a job.

And I’m not pretending otherwise.

When I reach the safe house and unlock the door, I call her name softly before stepping fully inside.

“I’m back.”