Page 101 of Trust

“That’s enough for today,” I say softly.

She frowns. “I’m okay—”

“You’re freezing.” I look her straight in the eyes. “Not negotiable. You want to shoot again, we’ll do it tomorrow. Once the blood’s back in your trigger finger.”

Cash stows the guns in their cases, tension in his movements. The distance between us vibrates with urgency. He may be planning ways to make her world smaller so she never needs to pull a trigger. I’m planning to give her the means to step through it. Both strategies are about keeping her safe. They are not the same. They will not be the same.

On the way back inside, Sara glances between me and Cash repeatedly. She can tell something’s off. I can see her trying to line it up in her head and not quite getting there. She’ll go back this week. I’ll push to make that happen, and I’ll have to watch Cash because I’m not sure where his impatience will end.

Where I stand emotionally is irrelevant.

THIS IS US

Sara

There is a strange kind of energy in the room. The plates are cleared. Cash washed, I dried, and Chris restored every dish with soldier-level precision, because apparently even assassins insist on kitchen order.

I sometimes forget what they are, what they do. They don’t bring it up around me, not even when there are guns involved, or maybe I’m choosing to ignore it.

This place gave me the comfort and safety I never expected. I know it won’t last much longer. So I hold on to what I can, every moment, every touch, every connection. Even if it leaves a mark.

Chris wipes his hands on a towel, takes a last look around, then glances my way. “I’ve got a few things to wrap up upstairs. Route planning, timing, and other stuff.”

Other stuff. His next job. He says it as if it’s nothing more than checking the weather.

I nod, pushing away thoughts of what that implies.

As he passes behind me, he squeezes my shoulders comfortingly and whispers a “good night” into my hair.

Chris anchors me. Cash tilts the ground beneath my feet, and somehow, I desire both.

After Chris’s footsteps fade overhead, Cash’s gaze settles on me. My skin prickles, like my whole body knows he’s watching.

I turn to see his mouth tilted in a half-smile, but there’s a question lingering in his eyes.

A strange flutter rises in my stomach.

“It seems,” he says slowly, “we have the couch to ourselves tonight.”

My blood is too hot in my veins. The thought of what I agreed to sends a jolt of reckless energy through me. “You two talked about tonight, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t dodge it. “Yeah, we did.” He sets two glasses on the table and pours a splash of whiskey into each. “There are no secrets between us. He's okay with this, Sara.”

It’s strange that I’m allowed to want this, to want both of them, and to be wanted back without repercussions, without being turned into a problem someone needs to fix. Here, in this space they created, my want is the starting point, something to be met. For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m performing. I feel like I’m finally, truly being seen.

Eyeing the amber liquid, I make it sound playful. “Trying to get me drunk?”

He tips the glass toward me, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Not drunk. Relaxed.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I’d rather you be a little tipsy than terrified,” he adds without a trace of humor.

“I wouldn’t be,” I blurt out too fast, the lie bitter enough to taste.

I’m about to cross a line I’ve never even been close to, giving him a part of my body that has always been, by definition, an exit only. It’s not just letting someone inside you. It’s letting them into a place that is so private, so fundamentally mine, that the idea of it being breached by another person, by him, scares me. What if it hurts? What if I hate it? I want it to be good for us both, and I’m worried I’ll be a disappointment, as usual.

Cash doesn’t argue. He sips his whiskey and watches me over the rim as I sit down, reaching for my glass. He knows better.