Page 137 of Operation: Defiance

Pushing the hair away from my face, my fingers snag on a knot. I must make a sound, because Asher looks up from the chair. “Pain?”

“No.”

Not pain. Just the weight of another problem I can’t solve with what I have.

“I…want to shower,” I say quietly. “But…I don’t have anything to put on afterward.”

The heat in my face rises, not embarrassment so much as vulnerability over admitting something this basic out loud.

Asher’s focus sharpens immediately. He’s not judging me. There’s no pity in his gaze. He’s mapping the problem.

“Then we’ll fix that.”

“I don’t have money. Or ID. Or anything that makes shopping…possible.”

“We can work around that particular challenge.” His tone is steady, practical.

He’s already given me days. His time. His care. His steadiness. Everything I didn’t know how to ask for. He just keeps…showing up. Meeting the need the moment I find the edge of it.

“I—” The word catches on the fear of wanting anything because it could be taken away. “You don’t have to keep…doing all of this.”

“You need clothes,” he says. “So we get you clothes.”

There’s no implication. No expectation. No unspoken transaction.

Just practicality wrapped in gentleness.

It almost shatters me.

I clear my throat. “I don’t know how to start. Online, I mean. I don’t know how to choose anything without touching it. Checking seams. Labels. Fabric. Shopping has always been hard for me. I buy the same top in four colors so I know it will always feel right, because if it doesn’t…it can be destabilizing.” I fight not to shrink back into myself. “And I can’t go anywhere.”

“Then we choose together,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You tell me what works for your body. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Something deep inside—knotted tight for days—loosens.

“Okay,” I murmur.

Asher moves to the couch first. He sits at one end, pulls his laptop onto his thighs, and waits.

I try not to think too hard about how close I choose to sit to him. Close enough to feel the heat of him through the sweatshirt. To catch a hint of his scent. Of spice and fresh air and him.

“What’s first? What does your body want most?” he asks.

I don’t have to think about the answer.

“Underwear.” My cheeks warm. “I’m tired of feeling…so exposed.”

He nods once, completely unfazed. “Tell me what matters.”

“Seamless,” I say. “Nothing fancy. A wide waistband, gentle elastic. No lace. No tags.”

He pulls up the website for one of the larger department stores, scrolls past all the pretty, fancy options, then stops on a pair that looks gentle. Comfortable. I recognize the brand.

“That one,” I say.

“What color?” he asks.

I blink. “I…get to choose?”