Matthew stepped closer. His eyes searched my face.
His voice was soft. "You are."
"What?"
"Still a person."
He reached up and cupped my jaw with one hand, palm warm against my skin. His thumb brushed across the stubble along my cheekbone. I held my breath.
Then he kissed me.
It wasn't desperate or demanding. It was nothing like the calculated seductions I'd endured from handlers who confused intimacy with control. Matthew's lips pressed against mine with care, like he was asking a question instead of taking an answer.
I'd let men touch me before. Let them kiss me when the job called for it. They were people who wanted to own pieces ofme I couldn't afford to give. I always pretended it didn't cost anything.
This was different. Matthew kissed me like he saw me and wanted a stronger connection.
My training screamed that attachment was operational suicide. I didn't want to need anyone. I especially didn't want to need him. But the truth was, I was tired. I was injured. I was in hiding and out of options. There weren't many people I could still trust—but Farid had proven he was one of them, and was Matthew one, too?
I was supposed to be dead, but for the first time in eight months, running felt like the wrong choice. I'd learned to see people as resources, threats, or obstacles. Matthew had somehow become none of those things, and I had no protocols for what he was instead.
It was the most dangerous impulse I'd felt in years.
I reached for the front of his t-shirt, curling my fingers into the soft cotton. His free hand settled at the small of my back, steadying me without trapping me.
When we broke apart, neither of us moved away. His breath warmed the air between us.
"I should go," I whispered.
"You don't have to."
I sighed heavily and exhaled, and then didn't leave.
The decision surprised me. For eight months, movement had meant survival. Stillness meant discovery, capture, and elimination. Every instinct inside me screamed for me to disappear before Matthew changed his mind about harboring a wanted man.
I pushed it all to the back of my mind and lay on his couch. The kiss had scrambled my internal compass. It wasn't desire I felt. It was the terrifying suggestion that someone might still see me as worth saving.
Matthew closed the laptop with a soft click and walked to the kitchen. I heard the familiar sounds of domestic routine—cabinet doors opening, the whisper of tea bags, and water running into a kettle. The domestic noise belonged to people who stayed in the same place long enough to develop habits.
He didn't ask what I wanted or whether I was hungry. He moved through his morning ritual quietly, like a soldier maintaining his gear without conscious thought. When he returned, he carried two steaming mugs and set mine on the coffee table within easy reach.
"Thank you." The words irritated my throat.
He settled into his chair across from me, cradling his mug between both hands. Neither of us mentioned the kiss. Neither of us mentioned Farid, Hoyle, or the digital evidence. We sat in the growing daylight and drank tea like ordinary people having a mundane morning.
Matthew wanted nothing I could identify, and that disoriented me more than any interrogation technique I'd endured.
Around nine, he disappeared into the kitchen again. I heard the refrigerator open. He cracked eggs, and I heard butter sizzling in a hot pan.
When he returned with two plates, I started to refuse. "You don't have to—"
"I know." He set one plate on the coffee table beside my tea. "But I made extra anyway."
The scrambled eggs were pale yellow and perfectly soft, accompanied by toast cut diagonally and a small mound of fresh strawberries. It was food designed for comfort.
I ate mechanically at first, refueling my body with the same detachment I'd use to service a weapon. Matthew finished his breakfast and watched me patiently until I cleared the entire plate.
When was the last time someone had waited to make sure I finished eating?
