Without speaking, his hand found mine where it rested against the couch cushion. He threaded his fingers through mine, squeezing once as if to confirm I was actually there. I squeezed back harder than I meant to, like I could somehow transfer everything I couldn't say through the pressure.
We lay in silence long enough for the world outside to fade into the background. Our afterglow was fragile, and I wasn't ready to puncture it with words. For those few stolen moments, there was no Tahiti, Lars Reeves, or administrative leave—only Alex's body against mine.
He finally spoke. "What are we doing, Michael?"
I had no reassuring answer. "I don't know, but I couldn't tell you to leave."
He shifted slightly beneath me, not pulling away but adjusting to see my face better. His eyes searched mine. "It's not only about what happened in Tahiti anymore."
"No, it's not."
He weighed his next words carefully. "They're watching me—actively monitoring my research. Someone accessed encrypted files on my laptop." His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around mine. "I think I found something about Reeves they don't want known."
I tensed against him as reality crashed back into the room, propping myself up on one elbow to better see his face. "Tell me."
"Project Asphodel. Military applications and defense contracts worth billions. And a woman named Evelyn Shaw who abruptly left the company, too."
I flinched, and my protective instinct rose inside me. "You need to stop digging. These people—"
He shook his head, cutting me off. "I can't. Not now." He rested his free hand against my cheek.
While I stared back at him, I remembered the final words from Reeves: "Tell her the deal's off." Could Alex have uncovered her?
I spoke quietly. "I know you can't." The simple statement acknowledged both the danger and his determination.
Outside, Seattle continued its slow-motion drowning, rain washing everything clean. Inside, we clung to each other like survivors pulled from the carnage, both too wrecked to guarantee the future—but neither of us willing to let go.
Chapter twelve
Alex
Ididn'tknowwheretoput my hands.
The morning after felt more intimate than the night before. Sex had been straightforward—desperate, necessary, like breaking through ice on a frozen pond to breathe. Standing in Michael's kitchen while he measured coffee grounds with military precision involved navigating unmapped territory.
His apartment surrounded me with fragments of his life: a tactical backpack tossed in the corner, a weathered copy of Marcus Aurelius'sMeditationson the side table, and running shoes lined perfectly against the wall.
The blinds remained half-drawn. Every shadow held its breath.
I shifted my weight while borrowed sweatpants hung loose on my hips. They smelled like him—cedar soap and laundry detergent.
"Your coffee machine looks like it requires a license to operate."
Michael's mouth twitched. It was something that was not quite a smile. "Gift from Marcus. He believes good coffee is a moral imperative."
"Is it?"
"According to him, bad coffee leads to bad decisions." Michael's fingers brushed mine as he handed me a steaming mug. "Though that theory didn't stop me from making plenty."
The kitchen wasn't small, but Michael moved through it like a man accustomed to narrower spaces—shoulders slightly hunched and steps measured to avoid collision. He kept a careful distance between us, not cold but guarded, as if proximity might dissolve whatever boundaries he'd spent the night rebuilding.
When I glanced up from my mug, I caught him watching me with an expression I couldn't decipher.
He broke the silence abruptly. "I should have offered you a towel."
"What?"
"Last night. When you arrived soaking wet, I should have—" He broke off the sentence.
