Page 26 of Ranger’s Protection

"Even though it's dangerous."

"Especially because it's dangerous. The things worth doing usually are."

I let that sink in, rolling it around in my exhausted brain. "Why Ranger? I assume it's not just because you were an Army Ranger."

He almost smiles. "No. Though that's part of it. Phoenix gave me the name after I'd been around for a few months. Said I operated like a ranger in the tactical sense: always ranging ahead, scouting threats, mapping terrain. Seeing what's coming before anyone else does."

"That fits. You do seem to see everything three steps ahead."

"It's how I'm wired now. Can't turn it off even when I want to."

"Do you want to? Turn it off?"

He considers the question seriously. "Sometimes. When the constant threat assessment gets exhausting. When I'd like to just exist without calculating exit routes and defensive positions everywhere I go. But mostly, no. It kept me alive in Afghanistan. Keeps people safe now. I'll take exhaustion over losing someone I could've protected."

Chapter 7 - Ranger

I hate talking about Afghanistan.

Hate reliving the weight of that day, the sound Mitchell's body made when the IED detonated, the way his blood looked on sand that was already too red from the sunset. Hate admitting that I carry it with me every single day, that constant calculation, that obsessive need to see threats before they materialize, that if I'm not vigilant every second, someone else will die.

I don't talk about it. Not with Phoenix. Not with Quinn, even though she knows some of it from her own service.

But I'm talking about it now. With Delilah. Pouring out pieces of myself I usually keep locked down tight because she shared first and because somehow, sitting in this quiet room with her curled under the covers looking at me like I'm not broken for being this way, it feels safe.

She feels safe.

Which is fucking insane given that I met her six hours ago and spent most of that time either extracting her from danger or driving through active pursuit. There's no logical reason I should feel comfortable with her. No tactical explanation for why telling her things I've never told anyone seems not just acceptable but necessary.

"You're good at what you do," she says, pulling me back from the spiral of self-analysis. "Protecting people. Seeing threats. All of it. That's not a flaw, even if it's exhausting sometimes."

"Doesn't always feel like a strength."

"The best strengths rarely do. They just feel like survival."

I look at her and see someone who understands that particular truth intimately. Someone who survived by being smart, by seeing patterns in numbers, by trusting her instincts even when the system told her to ignore them.

Someone who's softer than me in every visible way but just as fucking resilient where it counts.

"You should sleep," I tell her, because if I keep looking at her like this I'm going to do something stupid. "You're exhausted."

"So are you."

"I'm used to it. You're not."

"I've been running on adrenaline and terror for days. I'm very used to exhaustion." She shifts under the covers, her curls spreading across the pillow. "But I don't think I can sleep yet. My brain won't shut off."

"They won't find you here, you know? We have security protocols in place. Cameras. Perimeter checks. Armed brothers on rotation 24/7."

"You can't promise I'm completely safe. Nobody can."

She's right, and I hate that she's right.

"No," I admit. "I can't promise you're completely safe. But I can promise that if anyone tries to get to you, they'll have to go through every single one of us first. And we're very fucking good at what we do."

"I noticed. You took down four men in that motel room like it was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing. But it was necessary."