Page 141 of Operation: Defiance

“I can’t fasten the bra clasp. My shoulder…”

The furrow deepens for a beat before he nods. “All right. You won’t be able to see my hands, but I can narrate every move before I make it.”

I meet his gaze. The level of intimacy—of trust—this requires isn’t lost on him.

I turn before I can lose my nerve, holding the cups tight to my breasts.

“I’m going to stop a foot away. I won’t touch you yet,” he says.

The warmth of him seeps into my bare back at the same time as the panic spikes, stealing my breath. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth until it’s almost painful. My heartbeat slows.

“Go ahead.”

“I’m starting with the hooks. On the right.” Then, he adds, “If I try to do this without touching your skin, the band is going to cut into your ribs.”

“I know. You can touch me.”

“You’ll feel my knuckles in three, two, one.”

It’s just a gentle brush of warmth against my back. One that doesn’t send my heart shooting into my throat.

When the clasp catches, he steps back. “Done.”

Asher doesn’t leave the room, but he turns around so I can finish getting dressed. Just…here. A steady presence, ready to help if I need it.

The tank is loose enough I can tug it up over my hips rather than down over my head. The hoodie is so soft, I’m not sure I ever want to take it off.

“I’m…decent,” I say quietly. “But, there’s one more thing I need help with.”

“Anything.”

I pick up the brush and pass it to him, handle first. “If I try to brush my hair out—even with the conditioner—my shoulder…”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies my posture—the tension in the shoulder I’m guarding, the way I’m keeping my arms close so nothing pulls the wrong way. When he speaks, it’s with the same quiet intensity he brings to everything.

“I’ll have to be behind you again,” he says. Not a question. Just naming the part that matters.

My breath stutters, but I nod.

I sit at the edge of the bed. Asher steps into my line of sight first, letting me see his hands. “I won’t touch your hair until you give me the all clear.”

He disappears behind me, but this time, I don’t panic. “You can start.”

“I’m lifting the first section now,” he murmurs.

He gathers it in one hand, then drags the brush gently through the ends. Light strokes. Careful.

He’s not touching my skin, just the weight of my hair, but heat still pools at the base of my neck. The room goes quiet except for the soft drag of the bristles. Each pass loosens something in my chest that much more. Not because it’s comforting. But because it’s safe. I’m safe.

When he reaches a stubborn knot, he pauses. “This one might pull a little. I can stop.”

“No,” I say. “Just…take it slow.”

He does. And when the knot gives, a sigh escapes me before I can catch it.

“Okay,” he says after another few strokes. “All clear.”

I sit still for a moment, hair falling loose over my shoulders, the warmth of his presence still steady at my back. Not threatening or pressing. Just…safe.