Page 97 of Breach Point


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We lay there, suspended in the aftermath, until our breathing slowed and the world began to return. I felt him smile against my skin.

His voice was thick with satisfaction. "Well, that was something."

We lay in silence, our bodies cooling in the apartment's still air. The rhythmic splash of the waves outside provided the only soundtrack.

I rolled to my side and traced a finger along Alex's ribs, counting each one beneath his skin. Next, my fingertips traveled from his shoulder to his hip, memorizing the journey.

"I worried that I'd lost you," I admitted.

Those forty-eight hours in separate holding cells were like years apart. After everything we'd survived together, the isolation was a form of torture—not knowing whether he was safe or they were treating him well.

Alex turned toward me. "You didn't lose me."

Outside, the rhythm of the waves shifted slightly as the tide began its retreat from the shore. Inside, something similar transpired between us—a gradual ebbing of vigilance. What remained was a tentative but genuine peace.

Sleep claimed Alex first. His breathing deepened and slowed, eyelids finally surrendering to the weight of exhaustion. I remained awake for a few moments more.

My fingertips hovered above his cheek. The scholar and the soldier—we made an unlikely pair, drawn together by circumstances neither of us could have predicted. Yet here we were, our separate trajectories converging into something neither of us expected—possibility.

It wasn't the end of what Project Asphodel left in its wake. Congressional hearings still loomed. Evelyn remained in protective custody.

Project Asphodel's architects would surely fight back through legal channels, attempting to manipulate the media. It wasn't an end to their battle—only a change in direction.

With Alex at my side, I push it all away momentarily. I settled deeper into the bedding, finally allowing fatigue to overtake me. My arm circled Alex's shoulders, drawing him closer until his head nestled against my chest. He mumbled something unintelligible, pressing closer without waking.

I closed my eyes, synchronizing my breath with Alex's, and finally surrendered to sleep. Whatever name we would give what came next, this much was certain: we'd found our way back to shore.

Epilogue - Alex

Iwoketothepersistentrhythm of waves crashing against the rocky shore, their cadence as familiar as a favorite lullaby. The cotton sheets beside me retained the depression of Michael's body, but the space had cooled.

Through half-lidded eyes, I observed muted morning light filtering through sea-weathered curtains, casting our bedroom in hushed blues and grays. The robust aroma of coffee—black and strong, as Michael preferred—wound its way under the door and tugged me further into consciousness.

It had been a little over a year since everything unraveled—Project Asphodel, the cover-ups, and the silence we refused to keep. The presidential pardon had cleared all of us officially. The charges vanished from public record, but the scrutiny lingered. People still recognized us occasionally: the SWAT officer and the professor who exposed an assassination program.

The Seattle PD offered to put Michael back on active duty, but he knew his uninvited celebrity would be disruptive for years to come. In the end, we left, not because we had to, but because we could.

We chose a weathered stretch of Oregon coastline. It wasn't anonymous, but it was quiet. It gave us space to become something other than the aftermath.

I stretched, arms spreading wide. The floorboards outside our room creaked, announcing Michael's return.

"You planning to hibernate all morning, Professor?"

I propped myself up against the headboard. "Only gathering my academic thoughts."

"Is that what we're calling it now? Not the luxury of sleeping in until 9 AM?" He appeared in the doorway, barefoot and wearing faded flannel pants that hung low on his hips. He balanced two mismatched mugs, steam curling from their rims.

"Still over-brewed and scalding."

"Perfect." I accepted the offering, my lips brushing against the pulse point at his wrist as I took the cup. Michael settled beside me, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He slid one leg against mine under the covers.

"The Sullivan boy needs help rebuilding his treehouse today. Said his dad doesn't know which end of a hammer to hold."

I chuckled softly. "And naturally, you volunteered."

"Naturally." He rested his free hand on a bare stretch of my thigh peeking out from the sheets. "Should be back before dinner."

I studied Michael's profile against the sea-washed light—the strong line of his jaw, and the faint creases around his eyes that deepened when he smiled. He gently steered my mind toward my work. "You should write that book someday—the one about technological ethics and algorithmic accountability."