She tries another jab, this time with her words. “That was supposed to impress me?”
But it falters. Doesn’t land with the usual fire. And she feels it too—the electricity humming in the air between us. The echo of contact. The something neither of us wants to name.
I walk off before I say anything stupid to grab a towel. Wipe down the back of my neck like it’ll cool the heat pooling there.
“Session’s over.”
But her stare is still burning into my back.
And somewhere beneath the discipline and duty and rule-following I’ve nailed to my skin, I feel it too.
I don’t say goodnight.
She knows where her room is. She can find it without me walking her there like some damn chaperone.
Instead, I bury myself in intel—maps, reports, timelines—anything with clean lines and sharp logic. Anything that doesn’t smell like her shampoo or remind me of the way she looked at me on that mat.
This tension? It’s ridiculous. Implausible. A distraction I can’t afford.
So I’ll drown it in strategy, and pretend that’s enough.
As night settles over the house and quiet creeps in, I find myself watching her. Not intentionally, just habit. The cameras are a necessity in this line of work—paranoia isn’t a flaw, it’s a survival mechanism. I don’t monitor the bathrooms, obviously—I’m not a monster—but every other space is fair game. It all has to be controlled and secure.
For a while, her room is empty. Still. Almost serene. Then the bathroom door swings open and she steps out, wrapped in nothing but steam and damp skin, a trail of water ghosting across the floor as she digs through her suitcase with growing irritation. Her skin radiates against the faint glow of the lamp on her bedside, rivulets of water still dripping from her bare skin.
Frustration flickers across her face. Whatever she’s looking for, she’s not finding it—tugging at zippers, flipping clothes, muttering under her breath. She yanks at the bag like it’s personally betrayed her.
I should look away.
But I don’t.
She still doesn’t know I can see her. Or maybe she does—and just doesn’t care.
Either way, I keep watching.
She tugs something out from her suitcase. Small. Matte black. Familiar in a way that punches straight through my discipline.
My jaw tightens as I fight an internal battle with my morality.
I know exactly what it is.
I should stop. Turn off the feed. Remind myself this isn’t my business. That she’s entitled to whatever comfort she can steal in a world like this.
But my hand doesn’t move.
Because now itismy business. I let her through the door. I swore I’d keep her safe. And underneath all the posturing and boundaries and tactical routines, something in me is hooked—and I don’t like how deeply.
The plans I’d been reviewing blur into static. Routes, aliases, fallback zones… all gone.
All I see is her.
All I hear is my own shallow breath.
While the rest of the world thinks I’m a fortress of resolve and ice, I am currently losing a war of restraint against a woman who doesn’t even know she’s weaponised.
And this?
This was never part of the mission.
