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I’m out of the truck before the words fully land. My boots hit the gravel quietly, deliberately, the trained footfalls of a man who’s spent his life learning how to move without making noise. The frigid air hits my face like a slap, sharp with pine resin and woodsmoke, and I breathe it in deep, letting it fill lungs that have been carrying the stench of concrete and blood for hours.

Dad’s out on the porch, perched on the top step with a rifle resting on his knees. His back leans against the post, eyes sharp, sweeping the tree line like a guard dog that never truly sleeps. He hears my boots crunch over the gravel, and his head turns. Relief flickers across his face, then a quick scan of my torn clothes, the blood smeared on me, the hollow look in my eyes—a look he recognizes. It says everything about the kind of man who raised me.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t have to. He reads it all: the tense set of my jaw, the fresh blood on my knuckles, the calm where a tremor once was. Whatever he sees, he takes it in. Not with pride or approval, but with the quiet, steady understanding of a father who knows what his son can do and has come to terms with it.

“She’s asleep,” Dad says, speaking low, barely above the sound of the river. “Been out about an hour. Your mother’s in the guest room. Tiana is on the couch.”

I nod. Can’t trust my voice. My throat is raw from Caldwell, from the sounds I made in that concrete room, from the particular strain of holding everything together long enough to finish the job. Dad moves aside, making room on the steps, and I move past him, my hand finding his shoulder for one brief, grounding moment.

He squeezes my arm. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to.

The front door opens into warmth, the particular, lived-in warmth of a cabin that’s been loved, the smell of cedar and my mother’s lavender soap and something deeper, something that lives in the walls and the floors and the memories built into every board. The living room is dim, lit only by the television’s blue glow, and I can see Tiana curled on the couch beneath a blanket, her dark hair spilling across the pillow, her breathing deep and even. She doesn’t stir when I pass.

I move down the hallway on instinct, my body navigating the familiar layout of a cabin I’ve been coming to since I was fourteen. The master bedroom door is cracked just enough to let the warmth from the wood stove seep through, just enough that I can hear the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing from the other side.

I push the door open.

She’s asleep.

Seeing her like this stops me cold—not with a slap’s sharp sting, but with a soft, gut-wrenching ache. She’s curled up on her side, one bandaged hand nestled under her cheek, the other resting on the pillow. The sheet is draped at her waist. She’s wearing one of my old t-shirts, the gray one that’s all comfy from countless washes and carries the scent of her detergent. Her curls are a wild halo on the pillow, and even asleep, her face shows the rawness of someone who’s fought hard to stay strong and has finally, finally let go.

In the moonlight, I catch the raw, red patch on her scalp where hair used to be, the skin tender and sore. Her arms are marked with deep, purple-black bruises, fingerprints bold against her skin. Her hands, wrapped in stark white bandages, stand out against the dark sheets.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I stand there, just watching her breathing, in and out, in and out. It’s the rhythm of a body that survived, fought, and is still here. Still warm. Still hers. The fury that’s been boiling inside me for days, the cold drive that pushed me through hell, shatters. It doesn’t fade; it splinters. It crashes, gives way, and what rushes in is so huge and tender that my knees nearly give out.

I catch myself on the doorframe. Press my forehead against the wood. Breathe.

She’s safe.

The contract is dead, the network in ashes. The man who put a price on her head lies cold in a concrete room, neck snapped, leaving the world with one less monster in it. She’s safe, asleep, wrapped in my shirt, her breathing the only sound that matters in the universe.

I move across the room, light on my feet. The floorboards stay silent. I know every creak, every nail, every spot where the wood groans and where it stays quiet. I peel off my jacket, boots, and the bloody shirt, dropping them in a heap of violence and shadows, things I’ll deal with tomorrow. They don’t belong here, not in this bed, not near her.

I’m down to my jeans when I slide under the covers.

The bed is warm where she was, the heat soaking into me like sunlight breaking through water. I slide in behind her carefully, my arm slipping around her waist with the ease of someone who’s traced every inch of her with my hands, mouth, and heart. She stirs just a little, a soft murmur escaping her throat as her body moves to fit mine, then settles again, her breath deepening. Her bandaged hand rests on my arm, which holds her close.

I tug her nearer, burying my face in the curve of her neck. I breathe in her shampoo, antiseptic, and something sweeter, something purely Trixie. The scent of a woman who’s faced the worst and still smells like she belongs in the sun.

She’s here, warm, real.

My eyes sting, so I shut them tight, pressing my face deeper into her hair, clutching her with the desperate grip of a man who’s been barely holding on and finally has someone solid to cling to. The tears sit heavy, caught between my chest and throat, a dam holding back something too big to name.

I can’t sleep. Adrenaline and exhaustion coil through me, remnants of violence leaving me wired. But my mind is calm, not empty, just still, like a lake after a storm. I lie there, counting her breaths, each one stitching something inside me back together. Not perfect, not like it was before, but enough. Enough to be the man she needs when she wakes.

She stirs again, but this time it’s more intentional, a slow stretch that starts at her shoulders and flows down her spine. She arches into my chest, her hand gripping my arm as her fingers press into my skin. I feel when she realizes I’m not a dream.

“Carter?” Her voice is thick with sleep, raspy, barely more than a whisper. The way she says my name, like it’s something she’s been holding on to with care, completely unravels me.

“I’m here,” I murmur against her neck, my lips brushing the skin behind her ear. She shivers, not from cold, but from the electricity that crackles between us, a live wire that’s never faded since our first touch.

She turns in my arms, her movements slow and careful. Her bandaged hands find my chest, and her knees press into my thighs, pulling herself closer with an irresistible pull, like gravity. In the moonlight streaming through the curtains, her face is soft, open, and devastatingly beautiful, making my chest ache.

“You’re here,” she breathes, half a question, half a prayer. Her eyes, wide and searching, carry that nurse-like intensity as she checks for damage. But beneath that lies something rawer, the deep relief of someone who can finally exhale after days of holding their breath.

“I’m here.” I cradle her jaw, avoiding the bruises, my thumb gently tracing her cheekbone, a tenderness that’s jarring after hours of chaos. “It’s done, Trix. All of it. The contract, the network, it’s over. You’re safe now.”