Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
“You’re not alone,” he says. “I’m here. And whoever did this? They’re going to regret it.”
I search his eyes. “You always this intense?”
“No. Just when it matters.”
I don’t say it out loud, but I think it:
I hope I matter.
And God help me, I feel safer already.
FIVE
CREWE
She’s already curled up on the left side of the bed when I come out of the bathroom.
Hair down. Glasses off. Hoodie traded for a loose tank that slides down one bare shoulder like it has a mind of its own.
“I left the right side for you,” she says, voice casual but tight at the edges.
“This is… fine,” I say, gesturing to the couch, even though we both know the thing is a glorified ottoman.
She tilts her head. “Crewe. You’re going to wake up shaped like a paperclip. Just get in.”
I hesitate.
It’s not that I don’t want to. Hell, I’ve been imagining this woman asleep beside me since I met her.
But this is not how that scenario played out in my head. In my head, there were no cheddar cheese interrogations, no threats hanging over her, no minefield of unresolved tension between us.
In my head, I wasn’t the one assigned to protect her.
“I don’t snore,” she adds. “But I do occasionally talk in my sleep. Once I recited the entire Declaration of Independence and didn’t wake up until the ‘pursuit of happiness’ part.”
That earns a quiet laugh out of me. Damn her. I don’t laugh. Not like this. She’s too cute.
I cross the room and slide under the covers, careful to keep a full foot of space between us.
The silence stretches.
She turns her head toward me. “You always this quiet?”
I stare at the ceiling. “I’m thinking.”
“About?”
I glance at her.
She’s watching me. Her face half-lit by the low lamp on the nightstand. Freckles soft across her nose. Eyes curious, but not pushing.
“About how fast this escalated,” I admit.
She nods. “Welcome to my life. One minute you’re debugging code, the next you’re fleeing to the mountains with a human Swiss Army knife.”
I arch a brow. “Human Swiss Army knife?”
“You’ve got tools for everything. Secrets. Skills. Muscles. Probably hidden lockpicks sewn into your pants.”
I don’t confirm or deny that last part.
She shifts, pulling the blanket up to her chest, her body inching closer. Not touching. Just… closer.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
I don’t say anything right away. I don’t trust what might come out. I reach over and tug the blanket higher around her shoulders. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” I say finally. “You’re safe here. With me.”
Her breath hitches. “You say that like you mean it.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
Another stretch of silence.
And then: “Crewe?”
“Yeah?”
“If we weren’t here—if we weren’t dodging rogue drones and hiding in a cabin with a fridge full of evil cheese—would you have kissed me by now?”
I freeze.
She’s not teasing. Her voice is soft. Barely audible.
I turn my head.
She’s looking at me like I’m the question and the answer, like I’m both the problem and the solution. Like she’s not sure which one scares her more.
“Probably,” I admit.
She swallows. “And now?”
I reach out. Slowly. Tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers graze her cheek and she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a second.
“Now,” I say, voice low, “you’re someone I’m responsible for. Someone who’s trusting me to keep her safe.”
Her eyes open again. Wide. Bright. Honest. “But I still want to,” I add, barely above a whisper. “Which is the problem.”
She’s so close now. I can feel the heat from her skin. Her breath fans across my jaw.
We hover there, both of us suspended in a moment that could tilt either way.
Want floods me. Not just the physical kind—though God knows that’s there—but something deeper. I want to know her. All of her.
Her hand brushes my forearm.
And I almost do it.
I almost lean in and taste her mouth and forget about the job and the rules and the danger outside these walls.
But I don’t.
Instead, I shift just enough to close the space between us without crossing the line. Our foreheads touch. Nothing more.
“I’m still thinking,” I murmur.
She nods. “Me too.”
And then she reaches for my hand under the blanket and threads her fingers through mine.
That’s how we fall asleep.
Not tangled. Not breathless. Not kissing.
Just connected.
But it might be even more dangerous than all the rest.
SIX
RILEY
The drive back down the mountain feels different.
Quieter. Heavier.
I keep telling myself it’s just because daylight makes everything look less romantic—less safe—than the warm cocoon of the safe house. But that’s a lie. The truth is, the fear followed us. It didn’t stay behind with the one bed and the almost-kiss and the illusion that this was just a weird detour in my life.
Crewe doesn’t say much as we head toward base. One hand on the wheel, the other relaxed but ready, like the road itself might try something stupid. I watch the trees blur past and try not to think about how fast everything spiraled from normal to classified nightmare.