“Because if you touch me,” her voice drops to a quiet whisper, “it stops being clean.”
The word lands exactly where it’s supposed to.
“Yes.” I drag in a breath, slow and deliberate, forcing the truth into order. “Because the second I put my hands on you, thisstops being a job. And once it’s personal, I can’t switch it off. And when it’s personal, my focus suffers.”
Her eyes darken. Not with fear. With understanding. She recognizes the monster, and she isn’t running.
“I’ve seen what happens when I lose focus. When I give an order, and someone doesn’t follow it.”
The memory grinds behind my teeth.
“That’s when people die.”
“If you give me an order, I’ll follow it. You’ve already figured that out.” She uses my own words against me, stepping closer instead of backing away, closing the space like she already decided the risk is worth it. Her palm comes to my chest again, right over my heart, testing how much restraint remains in me. “You’re not afraid of touching me. You’re afraid of what comes after.”
I don’t deny it. I can’t.
“If I touch you,” the honest truth bleeds into my tone, “I won’t stop. I’ll take everything, and I can’t afford to want you when I need to be watching doors, angles, and exits.”
Her thumb presses in slightly, deliberately. Grounding. Provocative.
“Then don’t lose focus. Keep me alive. Do your job.” She looks up at me: bold, terrified, incandescent. “But don’t pretend you don’t feel this.”
I cover her hand with mine, pressing it harder against my chest, forcing my body to remember discipline. Pain. Control. I want to crush her against me. I want to drag her to the floor. I want to ruin us both.
“I’ll keep you alive. No matter what it costs me.”
For one suspended second, we stand there: biology, instinct, and willpower colliding in the narrow space between us. The laptop hums. The fire pops. The blood rushes so loudly in my ears that it drowns out everything else.
Then I step back.
Because the line isn’t about whether I want her.
It’s about whether I can still be trusted to protect her once I take her.
“Coffee. I’m making coffee.”
I turn away before I test it. Before I grab her. Before I prove her right.
“Boyd.”
I pause at the counter. My knuckles go white where I grip the edge of the marble.
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
The machine starts to drip: steady, mechanical, something predictable in a moment that isn’t. I focus on the sound. I focus on the smell of the grounds. I tell myself I made the right call.
Behind me, her voice comes again. Clear. Unhesitating.
“And I meant what I said. I’ll follow your orders.”
The words slide under my skin. They settle somewhere low and dangerous.
I keep my hand still on the granite. Total control. But my pulse surges anyway, a sharp, unmistakable reaction having nothing to do with caffeine or exhaustion.
