Michael stood beside me, scanning the crowd. His stance was firm, arms crossed, and jaw clenched. He hadn't spoken much since we left the hotel, but his body language screamed everything he wasn't saying.
I tried to focus on Marcus, but the noise wouldn't fade. It lodged in my skull, constantly buzzing like a hornet trapped inside. My jaw ached—I realized I'd been grinding it so hard my teeth throbbed.
Every muscle in me wanted to drag him away from the race and into something I could control.
Michael shifted beside me, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the perimeter of the transition area.
"Security's a joke," he muttered under his breath, voice tight with frustration.
I followed his gaze. Volunteers in neon vests stood at key checkpoints, their attention divided between the crowd and their clipboards. There were no metal detectors or thorough bag checks—only cursory glances and indifferent nods. Too many people meant too many blind spots.
"Not designed for threats. Just logistics," I replied, my mind recording every flaw and oversight.
Michael snorted. "Logistics get people killed."
The words hung between us, heavy and unspoken. He wasn't only talking about today. We both knew that.
A gust of wind swept across the transition zone, flapping race banners and sending a ripple through the line of competitorspreparing for the swim. The crowd was dense—families waving signs, volunteers shouting directions, and athletes weaving through the hubbub with focused determination.
Michael's concentration never wavered, his eyes sharp, dissecting the crowd.
"You're tense," I said, trying to keep my voice light.
Michael's lip curled, and he stepped toward me. "You think this is me tense?" His chest brushed mine, with enough pressure to make it deliberate. "You haven't seen tense."
I exhaled, suppressing the urge to snap back. "We can't control everything. You know that."
Michael turned. "Doesn't mean we don't try."
An edge in his voice scraped against something vulnerable in me.
"Trying doesn't mean pushing until you break."
He took another step closer with his jaw clenched. "And what, you think overanalyzing every detail is going to save him?"
"I think understanding the threat is the only reason he's still alive." My voice was low and tight.
Michael glared for a beat longer, then shifted his gaze back to the crowd, his silence saying more than words could.
I watched Marcus again and how he moved, the practiced ease of it. Still, I saw the cracks. I curled my fingers into fists, forcing myself to stay grounded. This wasn't about me. It was about keeping him safe.
The crowd swelled, and the noise grew louder. I could nearly taste the blend of excitement and anxiety in the air. Michael's presence beside me was like a live wire, tension radiating from him in waves.
"You need to get your head in the game," Michael snapped suddenly.
I turned toward him. "I'm not the one pacing like a goddamn guard dog."
"At least a guard dog knows when to bite."
Michael edged closer, the space between us charged with something volatile. "Biting doesn't make you smart. It only means you've got teeth and nothing better to do with them."
A muscle twitched near his temple. "Yeah? And overthinking doesn't make you a genius. It just makes you slow when it counts."
I laughed—sharp and humorless. "Is that why you froze in Tacoma?"
My blow hit its target. Michael's face darkened, and before I could blink, his hand was on my jacket, shoving me backward. I stumbled, my heel catching on uneven pavement, but I caught myself before hitting the ground. His chest heaved, eyes wild, pupils blown wide with fury.
"Say that again," he growled.
