Lotus straightened, brushing Lena’s shoulder before flicking her gaze to Clara. “She needs food and rest. I’ll sit with her.”
Clara leaned down, whispered something too soft for him to catch, then pressed her forehead to Lena’s. Watchdog looked away, giving them the moment. He didn’t need to hear it to understand. Reassurance protocols worked the same whether you were blood, friend, or unit. You held on until the other person steadied.
Only when Clara finally drew back, only when Lotus gave him the tiniest nod, message received: I’ve got her, did he step forward.
“Do you want to freshen up?” His voice came out lower, rougher than intended. “There’s a shower upstairs and a bag of clothes that should have something that fits.”
Her eyes flicked back to Lena, checking, always checking, then to him. “Yes… Thank you.”
He led her up, counting the creaks in the stairs out of habit. Three loud ones, second and fourth steps the worst. The bedroom was basic, white sheets, a chair with the duffel, en-suiteoff to the side. He gestured. “Clothes. Should be something that works.”
He went to leave, protocol, space, distance, but fingers caught his arm. Small, warm, insistent.
Her lip trembled. “Wait.”
Her hand on his arm stopped him like a snare cable. Small fingers, fine bones, but the grip locked him in place. He could have pulled away. He didn’t, he didn’t want to.
He looked down, catalogued what he saw, the slight tremor in her lips, moisture brimming in her eyes, her shoulders pulling tight again after the brief release downstairs. The adrenaline was gone. The crash was here.
“Clara…” he started, intending to give her space, distance.
But her breath shuddered out, and instead she stepped closer, pressing her forehead briefly to his chest. “Please don’t leave me.”
He froze, heart hammering, as her words ripped him to shreds. He could feel her warmth seeping through his shirt, smell her shampoo, something soft, floral, not synthetic. Gentle like she was, understated and full of quiet strength. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words leaving before he’d authorised them. His hand hovered before settling carefully on her back. “I should’ve—. Oliver shouldn’t have got that close. I missed something. I put you at risk.”
Her head jerked up, surprise flashing across her tear-bright eyes. “No. You saved me. You saved Lena.”
“You don’t understand,” he cut her off, pressing his lips together, jaw locking tight. His brain replayed the sequence: van in position, overwatch compromised, sniper nest not cleared. All his fault. His chest clenched so hard it felt like an iron band around his ribs. “It was sloppy. I was sloppy. I don’t…”
“Jonas.”
His name on her lips hit harder than any bullet.
Her hands slid up his arms, anchoring him. “You weren’t sloppy. You were brilliant. You kept me alive. You kept Lena alive. And if you think for a second I’m going to let you take the blame for Oliver’s madness,” her voice cracked, but she steadied it, “then you’re not half as clever as you think you are.”
Something cracked in him. He wasn’t sure what. He was used to the team speaking up for him, caring for him, but this was different. This felt like healing.
He wanted to catalogue her words, parse them, weigh the probabilities, but all he could do was feel her, warm and solid and fierce against him. His hand pressed harder against her back, rubbing slow circles like muscle memory, like he’d been built to soothe her even as she soothed him.
Her breath was warm against his chest. She tipped her face up, eyes swollen, lashes spiked with tears, and whispered, “I must look a state.”
He cupped her jaw before he even knew he was moving. His thumb brushed her damp cheek, her skin impossibly soft under his calloused fingertip. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
Her breath stuttered. He felt it against his lips, felt the sharp hitch of her lungs, the faint tremor that wasn’t fear.
And then she leaned up, hesitant, tentative. Respectful, like she remembered how he’d bolted last time.
But all he saw was her. No dark rooms, no restraints, no ghosts. Just Clara.
The woman who believed him capable when he didn’t believe it himself.
His control snapped.
He kissed her hard, crushing his mouth to hers. The taste of salt, tears, sweat, her. She gasped, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He pushed her back against the door, his palms gripping her waist, greedy, needing her shape under his hands.
Her lips parted under his, her tongue brushing his in a desperate clash that made his knees weak. He groaned, a sound ripped straight from his chest.
“Jonas,” she breathed against his mouth.
