I snap, "Stop."
She does. She closes her eyes, letting her hair fall forward, shielding her expression. I want to tell her she’s brave, or reckless, or that she makes things hard in a way I can’t afford. But instead, I reload the spreadsheet on my phone, jaw clenched so tightly it aches. We don’t speak for the next hour. She disappears into her room. During the silence, I check external camera feeds, cross-reference cell tower pings for anomalies, and call the local station to reconfirm their patrol schedule. Everything appears routine—no threats visible from outside.
At 1:09 PM, I find her in the hallway, barefoot, wrapping a threadbare cardigan around her torso. Her steps are soft, but she doesn’t tiptoe. She’s walking like someone who owns the house, not hiding from anything. She faces me square, blocking the narrow passage by the mudroom.
"Are you hungry?" she asks.
"Not right now."
"Can I make you coffee?"
I hesitate, but say yes, because I’d rather have this than silence.
The kitchen is empty except for her. She moves with the drama of a ballet. All action compressed into fifteen square feet. She finds the canister. Scoops the grounds. Sets the kettle with methodical grace. Pours, waits, pours again. The colors in the room are sun-bleached, white, and gold. Everything else has faded. She nudges a mug toward me. Too hot. I let it cool. She sits across, cradling her own mug—no sugar, no milk, nothingto blunt the taste. Her hands aren’t shaking anymore. She says, "You know you don’t have to stay in the same room, right? You can trust the security system."
I stare at her and say, "The system’s only as good as its operator."
She grins, sharp and sudden. "I think you’re afraid of me.”
"Not afraid."
She leans forward, elbows on the table, a posture I have never seen her assume. She’s in my face, as close as the countertop allows. "What then?"
"That’s not relevant."
"It feels relevant to me." She pushes the mug aside, and her fingers drum a nervous line along the ceramic. "Are you always like this? Cold?"
I want to answer. But everything I’d say sounds like a confession. I look at her mouth. I think of last night—not the panic, but what came after. Her lips parted as she tried to find air. I know exactly how she’d taste: sweat, salt, adrenaline, and sleep. Human. She keeps her eyes on mine. Steady. When she speaks, it's a challenge thrown across the table. “I think you didn’t hate it.”
"Delilah—"
“You made me feel safe.” Delilah stands, rounds the table, and stops just shy of my chair. There’s a buffer of two feet between us. I stand, too, but she reaches out—deliberate, not desperate—her palm up, open invitation. She steps forward. I catch her by the wrist, pure reflex. The next move is hers, and she breaks every rule I’ve written. She steps forward and pulls me in—not hard, but unyielding—gravity, not violence. She raises the balls of her feet because our heights are so uneven that it’s almost comical.
She lifts her face. I think she’s going to say something clever. Or cruel. She just stands there, eyes wide, waiting. Then shekisses me. It’s not soft, not careful. It’s a containment breach. My lips press against hers. Surprised. Like an absolute fool, I kiss her back. I don't move my hands. I don't need to. If I did, there'd be no stopping. The kiss lasts maybe a second. Maybe a year. There is nothing else—no perimeter, no threat model, no fucking job.
When she pulls back, she doesn’t meet my lips. She doesn’t meet my eyes. She stares past me at the pale yard, the useless garden chairs, the sky darkening at the edges though it’s barely noon. I recoil first, fury at myself for breaking my own rule roaring through me.
She opens her mouth—“Cade, wait—” but I hold up my hand, my tone icy. “Don’t you say a word.” My grip on her wrists relaxes, and I step back, mouth set in a hard line, heart hammering in my ears.
She tries again, softer: “I just—” Her voice catches.
I cut her off. “No. Not a word,” and I turn on my heel, storm down the hall, not daring to look back.
Only when I reach the mudroom do I slow. I splash cold water on my face. Every drop stings. My palms shake against the tile counter; the sharp scent of bleach and lemon cleaner fills my lungs. I press my forehead to the cool wall. Taste the memory of her on my lips. Hate myself for wanting more.
When I’m certain she hasn’t followed, I check my phone: six unread texts, two security alerts. I tap a curt “Understood” to the guard captain and shove the device into my pocket. Anything more complicated right now would be a disaster.
As I step outside and put more distance between us, I scold myself for weakness. My self-rebuke is so vicious it feels like acid burning through my chest. My training—years of discipline and control have dissolved in the wake of a single kiss.
I should call Grayson now and recuse myself from this assignment. But I can’t.
CHAPTER NINE
DELILAH
Cade stays gone so long I imagine him halfway to the state line, calling in his replacement—or putting the uncorrected version of me on the next Greyhound out. Good. Let him call. I won’t apologize for kissing the only man who’s ever made me feel safe. For once, I wanted something and took it. I settle at the kitchen table and savor the aftermath. His mug is still warm. I touch my finger to the place where his lips grazed it earlier. Hot. Real.
It’s not the isolation that rankles. It's how it’s meant to scare me, yet all I feel is ignored—excluded from the world, not threatened by it. Still, there’s a delicate pleasure in realizing that I’m the one who finally unsettled him. The balance has tipped; he can’t reset it with another policy change, another checklist, another gentle but unyielding order. I have always been a problem, but today I am a problem with leverage, and that shift makes me feel powerful—if only briefly.