I tug him to the living room, not worrying about his boots muddying the rug as we go. The storm outside rattles the windows. Once inside, we stand in the center. The only light comes from the gas fireplace, glowing from its backup line. Cade sits by the hearth and looks up at me. Blood seeps from the cut above his eye. I kneel beside him and rip the sleeve off my shirt, pressing the cloth gently to his face.
He’s rigid. “You’re not supposed to do that.”
“Supposed to?” I laugh, bitter. “You think any of this is supposed to happen?”
He closes his eyes. “Don’t make this harder.”
I don’t know what comes over me. I lean in, pressing the cloth to his wound, and whisper: “I don’t care about the job. I care about you.”
He opens his eyes. There’s a tidal shift behind them. “You never make anything easy.”
“Neither do you.” I brush his hair from his forehead, careful of the cut. His breath catches. He smells like wet leaves, cigarettes, and liniment. Maybe for the first time, I want to stay. It feels like we’ve sat like this forever. Lightning flashes, then the room goes dark. In the afterglow, his hand finds mine, and we lace our fingers together.
“You know how this ends,” he says. His words vibrate inside me.
“My father’s men’ll have to get through you first.”
He smiles for the first time in days, lips thin and a little cruel. “That’s the plan.”
I lean forward to check his wound, but he lifts my face with his bandaged hand and kisses me. It’s not panicked or desperate like before. It’s slow and intense, sending heat through me. I grab his shirt and hold on. He doesn’t stop until I’m out of breath, until my lips feel raw. He rests his forehead against mine and breathes out, shaky.
“If I were braver?—”
“Don’t,” I say, fingers tracing his unshaven jaw. “Don’t tell me what you’d do. Just do it.”
He listens. The next kiss is intense—I can’t tell if it’s better or worse. His hands hold my face, thumbs along my jaw. When I breathe in, he kisses me deeper, tasting of heat and smoke. I wrap my arms around his neck. His hands move down my back, slow and careful, as if he’s trying to remember every part of me. He pulls away suddenly, like it takes effort.
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” he mutters.
I push him back, grab his jacket, and force him to look at me. “Maybe I do. Maybe I want to screw up your life for once.”
He laughs, really laughs, helpless. Then he grabs my wrist, just like I did to him, and presses his mouth to my palm. The touch is so gentle it almost feels wrong. “You already have,” he says, and I believe him.
I climb into his lap, legs crossed over his, and let my head fall to his shoulder. We sit there, listening to the wind sunder trees and rain pummel the roof, each heartbeat a countdown to whatever comes next.
“I want you to promise,” I say, voice muffled against his throat, “that no matter what, you won’t leave before I do.”
He turns, nuzzles his nose into my hair, and breathes deep. He doesn’t answer. I take that as yes. We stay there until sunrise, limbs tangled, the storm fading into memory. When the relief team shows up at noon, they have to bang on the door for five straight minutes before either of us moves. He gets up first, sets me gently aside, and stands with his back to me, cracking the tension out of his neck.
“You ready?” he asks. There’s no sarcasm, no mask. I nod, wipe my face, and walk forward. The new team works fast. They’re all ex-military, with short hair and earpieces. Cade’s been reassigned. The lead guy is huge, even bigger than Cade, and tries to herd me upstairs. Cade stays back, letting them take over. He gives me a look like he’s trying to remember me, like this is the moment he’ll hold onto. I fight every nervous habit so I can look back at him without flinching.
Upstairs, the new team does a cursory sweep of the safe room and checks every closet and window. Their leader is named Phelps, and he doesn’t bother with small talk. The instructions are idiot-proof: Stay put, don’t wander, don’t answer texts from unknown numbers. He reprograms my phone’s contacts to routeevery call through an encrypted app, hands it back, and moves on.
I ask twice where I’m being transferred, but the answer is always the same: not their department. I want to believe them, but the way Cade took the stairs two at a time, and how Phelps’s crew waited for him to check every corner, keeps me on edge.
The storm clears by evening. “You’ll be moving tonight,” Phelps says, eyes slivered by suspicion, like he expects me to bite. “Nothing personal, but we don’t want you and Walker in the same vehicle. Should be obvious why.” His mouth tightens.
“So he’s dangerous now?” I say it like I’m joking, but he just shrugs and redirects the conversation. “Two hours. Pack what you’ll need, no more than a carry-on.”
It hits me—I’m not just being moved. They’re separating us. The rest of the day feels like a funeral. Everything is drained of color, every sound feels fake. I pace the upstairs hall, looking for a chance to break the routine, but guards follow my every move. I see Cade once in the back fields, his jacket bright orange in the sunset, his shape hunched toward the barn like he’s hurting.
I wait until after dark. The moment they switch shifts, I sneak down the back stairs and out to the mudroom. Cade’s there, alone, shoving his clothes and gear into a duffel bag.
“You really are leaving,” I say. I mean it to sound tough, but the phrase comes out gnarled. For a second, he looks right through me.
“Not my call.” His jaw ticks. He’s got the look of a man about to break his own rules and pay for it later.
I hurl the question at him: “Are you even going to say goodbye?” I want him to lie or promise or fight, but he just looks at the floor and pulls his duffel’s zipper shut.