My fingertips traced the edge of the bandage at my temple.
Glass shattering. The percussion of the explosion. Ronan’s body covering mine as debris rained down. And him taking my hand as we ran away.
“Whydidn’t you run like I ordered you?” he had asked one night while we were on the run.
I had met his gaze, seeing the man beneath the assassin.
“Because you’re worth saving,” I had whispered.
The memory felt simultaneously distant and too close, like everything since São Paulo. Slipping across borders. Peru first. False papers. My hair was dyed blonde in cramped airport bathrooms. Night trains and back roads. Never sleeping more than three hours at a stretch.
Sunlight sliced through gaps in the wooden shutters, painting golden stripes across rumpled sheets where Ronan should have been. My hand slid across the linen, seeking his warmth, finding only cold emptiness.
My stomach dropped—an instinct from our time on the run.
I pushed myself upright too quickly, the room tilting as blood rushed from my head. I needed a moment to stabilize before I could think clearly. The silence suddenly felt wrong. Threatening. Where was he? Did something happen during the night? Did they find us?
I searched the room, registering the absence of his boots by the door. His backpack still leaned against the wall, but the holster that held his sidearm was empty.
“Ronan?” My voice came out scratchy, unused.
No answer.
My pulse hammered in my throat. Eight days of running. Eight days of looking over our shoulders. Of Ronan half-carrying me onto a ferry when blood loss made his skinpallid and cool, his voice still steady. “Almost there. Stay with me.”
Eight days wasn’t enough. They would still be hunting us.
My heart rate doubled as I swung my legs over the bed, ignoring the protest from my muscles. I grabbed the closest weapon—a ceramic lamp—and moved toward the window, staying to the side as Ronan had drilled into me.Never center yourself in any opening. Basic tactical principle.
I had learned a lot over these past few weeks—some things that would remain with me until the day I died. This was one of them.
I eased back the curtain just enough to peer outside, breath held, prepared for the worst.
Then I saw him.
Ronan sat at a weathered wooden table, back straight, shoulders set in that vigilant posture I’d come to recognize. His fingers rushed across a laptop keyboard, the blue light reflecting off his face in the morning sun.
The tight band of fear loosened around my chest. He was here. We were safe.
I set the lamp down, feeling foolish. I pulled on a loose shirt over my tank top and stepped onto the patio, bare feet silent against the warm boards.
Ronan didn’t turn, but his typing paused for a fraction of a second—acknowledgment. He knew I was there. He always knew. I approached slowly, observing the details of him that still felt miraculous after everything we’d survived. His dark hair was longer now, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.A healing wound peeked from beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt where the bullet had grazed him during our escape.
“Morning,” I said, voice still rough with sleep. Now that I was beside him, I allowed my body to relax fully.
He looked up, eyes sweeping over my face like someone who memorized exit points and threat assessments. Dark circles shadowed the space beneath them. He hadn’t slept again, but his expression softened.
“There’s coffee,” he said.
Before I could respond, he handed me his mug, the ceramic still warm from his hands. This small attention—always giving me his coffee before I asked—hit me harder than it should have. These fragments of normalcy felt stolen, precious.
“You should have woken me,” I murmured, taking a sip.
“You needed the rest.”
“So do you,” I murmured, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he brought me closer, one hand reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered at my temple, inspecting my healing wound carefully.
I set the coffee down and sat on his lap, pressing my lips to his. What began as comfort deepened into something hungry and desperate—a reminder that we were still alive, still together. His hand found the uninjured curve of my waist, drawing me closer. I tasted coffee and salt and him. When we parted, he kept me close, his forehead resting against mine.
