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There’s something about that one word.

No anger.

No drama. Just certainty, flat and unbending as the runway we are standing on.

My stomach gives another stupid little flip, the exact opposite reaction a sensible, self-respecting woman should have to being told no. My stomach does a stupid little flip at being told no by a man I met ten minutes ago.

He looks at me for another second. “Get some sleep, Amber.”

I blink. “You know my name?”

“Yes.”

“Rick told you?”

“I pay attention.”

Three words. Just three words, delivered like they cost him nothing, and yet they land somewhere warm and unguarded, a place I usually keep locked behind three deadbolts and my naughty girl’s book club group chat.

Then he walks away.

And I stare after him like I’ve just encountered a secret boss level I wasn’t prepared for, no strategy guide, no walkthrough, nothing but instinct and a dangerously fluttering heart.

Rick comes back with two coffees. “You look confused.”

“I’m analyzing.”

“You’re staring at Fowler.”

“Is he always like that?”

“Like what?”

I imitate Christopher’s low voice. “Sleep. Eat. Hydrate. Obey basic laws of human biology.”

Rick laughs. “Pretty much.”

“Military?” I ask. My older brother is a Marine veteran and something about Fowler is screaming military.

“Air Force Academy and war veteran.”

Of course. “Former officer?”

Rick nods. “Served overseas. Got injured. Moved into air traffic ops.”

Something about that quiets me and not because I pity him. I don’t. But suddenly his reaction to my fatigue makes more sense. He’s not being fussy, not controlling for the sake of it, but a man who has watched exhaustion and bad judgment cost something real, and refuses to sit quietly while it happens again in front of him. It’s hard to explain to people that when your body is conditioned to run on four hours of sleep, it works. I sleep in shifts. It’s not four hours all together, it’s four hours at night, four hours in the midday. In fact, some days, I sleep twelve hours in a twenty-four-hour period. Other days, I get four hours of sleep in forty-eight hours. It’s not consistent, sure, but I know my body well enough to know when I’m exhausted and when I’m not.

“What happened?”

Rick gives me a pointed look. “Not my story.”

I nod. “Fair.”

There are lines I won’t cross, not even for intel. Mostly. I sip my coffee, filing the information away carefully, gently, the way you’d hold something that isn’t yours yet but might be someday.

Rick says, “You’re not going to leave that man alone now, are you?”

“No promises.”