"That's enough for today," Finn says as we step onto the deck. "You need time to process."
"Is there a quiz later?" I attempt a joke to lighten the tension that's been building between us all morning.
"No. But your life might depend on remembering what I've shown you."
The blunt reminder of why I'm here lands like a punch to the gut. This isn't a vacation. This isn't a romantic getaway with a mountain man fantasy. This is life and death.
"Sorry," I say quietly. "I shouldn't joke about it."
"It's a normal response." His voice softens slightly. "Humor as a defense mechanism against fear. I've seen it in combat zones."
"And thats what my life’s become, right? A combat zone?"
"Until they catch him? Yes."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm sun. "I hate this. I hate that he's taken my sense of safety. That he's got me running scared across the country. Hate that this is my life."
"I know." Finn moves closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, but not touching me. "But you're not running scared, Nova. You're making a tactical retreat. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Running scared is reactive. Panicked. A tactical retreat is strategic. Controlled. It's not about fear, it's about choosing the battlefield where you have the advantage."
"And this is that battlefield? Your mountain?"
"Yes." His voice drops lower, edged with something primal that sends a shiver down my spine. "Here, we have every advantage. Here, you're protected."
"By you."
"By me."
The way he says it, so simple and absolute, breaks something open inside me. Two words that contain a promise more powerful than any I've ever been given.
Before I can think better of it, I reach out and place my hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat strong and steady beneath my palm.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For making me feel safe again."
His body goes completely still beneath my touch, his eyes darkening to the color of a storm at sea. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then his hand comes up to cover mine, warm and calloused and so much larger.
"Nova." Just my name, but the way he says it makes it sound like both a warning and a plea.
"I know," I say, though I'm not sure what I'm acknowledging. The professional boundaries we're blurring? The danger of forming attachments in a crisis? The simple impossibility of anything between a pop star and her bodyguard living on a mountain?
All of it, probably.
His other hand rises to my face, hovering just shy of touching my cheek, as if he's fighting some internal battle about whether to cross this line.
"This is a bad idea," he says, his voice rough.
"Probably."
"You're my client."
"I know."
"I'm supposed to protect you."
"You are protecting me."
