Page 155 of Operation: Defiance

I shake my head. “No. I think…that was exactly what I needed.”

Asher nods once, pushing off the counter. “Then let’s get you to the couch. Whatever you want next—TV, book, quiet—I’m here for it.”

Halfway through an old episode of Law & Order, the space between us feels less like a boundary and more like permission.

I let my hand drift toward his on the cushion between us. Our fingers brush.

He doesn’t shift away. I don’t either. And that—God—that might be the most grounding thing he’s done all day.

After the credits roll, we each choose a book from his small collection. An Agatha Christie mystery for me, and a tome on the history of the combustion engine for him, then start going through the motions of bedtime.

For a few moments, we stand side-by-side at the sink. Two people brushing our teeth like no one’s trying to erase me or hunt him.

When I return to the bedroom, I stop short. One of the shopping bags is still on the bed. The one with the nightshirt I know I didn’t order this morning.

It’s just as soft as I remember. Dark blue. No tags. No seams. “Asher, what is this?”

He leans against the doorframe, one brow lifting. “It’s not obvious?”

I look down at the nightshirt, then back at him. “I know it’s a nightshirt. But I didn’t order this. Or anywhere near as many things as were in those bags.”

His slow smile sends warmth blooming in my core. “You’ve been rationing yourself since the minute you woke up here. You deserve better than choosing between one set of clean clothes and another. Or sleeping in your hoodie…unless that’s what you want.”

My fingers flex in the fabric. “Asher…”

“If it doesn’t work, I’ll return it tomorrow. No questions, no pressure. We can order something else or nothing at all.”

The room softens around the edges. “It’s too much,” I whisper. Anything louder would crack me open. He’s been guarding me against hazards I don’t even realize are there.

And he’s done it all because he was in the wrong place at the right time.

“No,” he says, his voice firm, but still gentle. “It’s enough. For now. Because you deserve to have enough.”

He snags the blanket from the chair and, as he sits, his right hand braces against his thigh and his shoulder hitches in a small, sharp way I’ve seen before.

Does he think I haven’t noticed?

I have. He’s trying to hide his pain from me, and once I change, I know the next conversation we’re going to have.

He isn’t sleeping in that chair again.

Asher

Raine disappears back into the bathroom as I try to get comfortable. The old scar throbs even more tonight. Worse, my shoulder’s decided to join the pain party. When this is over—if it’s ever over—I’m going to need a week horizontal.

After a few moments, Raine opens the door, her cheeks tinged red, and her left arm clutched tightly to her chest over the nightshirt. “I…need help again. The bra. I can’t unhook it.”

“Turn around. I’ll wait to approach until you’re ready.“

Her thumb skims her left index finger briefly. I’ve noticed the behavior more than once. Always when her thoughts start to spiral. But she releases a long, slow breath, and steadies. “I think…it’ll be okay even if you don’t narrate the whole time.”

Fuck me.

She’s working so hard at something most people take for granted. I won’t let her push herself beyond what her body’s ready for. “Probably. But I’m going to do it anyway. You say when.”

Raine’s small huff tightens her lips briefly before she turns. “The shoulder straps are off. I got that far. But the band…” Her shoulders heave. “I’m ready.”

“I’m coming up behind you now.” I move slowly, doing my best to announce each footfall. Not the easiest thing while barefoot. She’s tense, but she doesn’t flinch. “Lifting the hem of the nightshirt. You’ll feel my fingers in three, two, one…”