Page 74 of Operation: Defiance

The room sharpens at the edges. Enough to matter.

He waits until my breathing evens out enough to count as breathing before he speaks again.

“Can you tell me what just happened? Or do you need me to talk? To stay quiet?”

I hesitate. Needing is a mistake. Needing means permission. Leverage.

In the end, it’s his eyes that convince me. The care in them.

My fingers tremble, but I force the words out before they slip away.

“It’s still there.” I lift my hand in the vague direction of my temple, too afraid to touch the sticky residue again. “On my skin. Everywhere.”

That’s all I can give him, and I’m terrified it won’t be enough for him to understand.

Asher frowns, his gaze sharp but not unkind. My heart rate ticks up again.

“Do you want to shower?” he asks.

Not ‘are you okay?’ Not ‘what’s wrong?’ Just an option.

Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of the grime coating every part of me. The stench of sweat and fear and too many hands. The rough seams pressing against my skin. My entire body is one raw nerve I can’t soothe until I’m clean.

“Yes.”

“There’s a walk-in,” he says. “With a bench and plenty of hot water. Can I help you up?”

I swallow. The room tilts a few degrees. “N-no. On my own. Please.”

He nods. “Understood. I’ll stay right here.”

Standing is harder than it should be. Not pain exactly. Disagreement. My body hasn’t decided that I’m allowed. Or that gravity won’t actively try to kill me.

I sway, then catch myself against the wall. My shoulder protests. It’s manageable, but those few degrees of tilt have turned into more, and I’ve only been upright for three seconds.

“Come closer?” I ask. “But⁠—”

“I won’t touch you,” he says. “I will catch you if you fall.”

I hate how much that helps.

The bathroom light is harsher. Bright and clean and overwhelming after so long trapped in that hood. I keep my eyes down, refuse to look anywhere close to the mirror, and brace myself against the counter. Asher turns the water on, tests it, adjusts, tests again.

“What now?” he asks.

Heat creeps up my neck. Words lag behind the need. “I can manage the pants. Not the shirt. Lifting my arm is…too much.”

“I could cut it⁠—”

“No.” The word tears out of me, panic spiking so hard, my legs start to tremble.

He holds up his hands. “Nothing happens that you don’t choose. Not here.”

I believe him. My nervous system doesn’t.

“Can I tell you what I think will be easiest?”

An offer. Not a command.