Page 296 of Operation: Defiance

We’re alone. Ensconced in this safe house that should still be safe, with members of Inara’s team keeping watch from the street.

Asher fell asleep halfway through a bowl of Doc’s pasta e fagioli. But ten minutes later, he surfaced long enough to remove his IV while I was making a cup of chamomile. I came back to find him fumbling for a way to stop the bleeding.

The look on his face reminded me so much of how I felt the first few days after he pulled me out of the black site. I didn’t press him for an explanation. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.

His skin is warm under my palm. A couple of hours ago, we managed to get him out of what was left of his clothes and into pajama pants—small dignities, but they matter. I crawled into bed without removing anything but my shoes, and fell asleep to the sound of his steady breathing.

I should stay. Close my eyes again and try to rest. But there’s a note in the safe with my name on it, and now that he’s back with me, I’m ready to read it.

I ease out of bed, retrieve the letter, and take it into the living room. Now that I’m no longer curled up against a warm, half naked body, the chill sends goosebumps running down my arms. My hoodie is draped over the back of the couch, and I pull it on before I spread the piece of paper out on the coffee table.

The bold strokes of his handwriting are their own form of comfort. He’s not a man who rushes. Or makes mistakes. He prepares.

You were right.

I smile in the glow of the lamp on the end table, tracing the last few letters of the word.

I have never wanted to stay anywhere as much as I want to stay with you.

My next swallow is harder. Maybe I’m not ready for this.

You built a life that assumed you’d always leave. I built one that assumed I didn’t deserve to stay.

“You deserve it, Asher. You deserve all of it,” I whisper to the empty room.

If I don’t make it back to you⁠—

The first tear falls, hitting my thumb.

We’ll be together long enough that our scars fade into stories rather than warnings.

The words blur. Our scars. He’s been thinking in terms of “us” almost from the beginning. He knew. Long before I understood what we were building…he knew.

You’re the only choice I’ve ever made that didn’t require a calculation.

I stop pretending I can hold it together.

The tears come quietly. I can still remember a time when I hadn’t cried in years. Now, I can’t seem to stop. I clutch the letter to my chest, turn my gaze to the window, to the city that sleeps all around us, and breathe through the spike—four in, hold, six out. Counting doesn’t help this time, and after a while, I stop trying.

I don’t know how long I sit like that before I sense him.

He’s barely upright, one hand on the door frame, swaying on his feet, and looking at me like he did when he saw me across that lobby. Like he can’t quite believe I’m real.

My own legs aren’t completely steady as I round the couch. “You should be in bed.”

“Probably,” he rasps.

Doc said his voice might come and go over the next few days. Residual trauma. Nerves coming back online, complaining, and going on strike again.

I curl my arm around his waist, avoiding the thick square of gauze at his side. “The couch, then. For now.”

Asher leans on me, as much for connection as support, I think.

We settle—carefully, slowly—and I drag a blanket around his shoulders before he pulls me close. For several minutes, we don’t speak. It’s enough to be together.

But eventually, he nods at the note on the coffee table. “You found it.” His voice isn’t much more than a whisper with rough edges.

“You knew I would.”