Page 79 of Operation: Defiance

The rest of the pile waits on the counter.

Soft black pants. A blue sweatshirt, the inside so fuzzy, I wonder if it’s brand new.

It takes me longer than I’d like to figure out how to work the sweatshirt on. Long enough I almost call Asher for help.

But he’s done so much for me already. Stepped right into the shower fully clothed to clean the residue from my skin. He narrated every movement, stopped whenever my panic flared, and kept his voice low and steady. Reassuring.

I shouldn’t feel safe around him. Not after so many hands causing me so much pain.

He doesn’t rush me. He adjusts around my panic without making me explain it. Like recalibrating for me is the most natural thing in the world. I don’t know what to make of that. Not yet. But maybe for now, it’s enough that he’s not treating me like a problem he has to solve.

My shoulder protests as I pull the collar of the sweatshirt over my head, but it eases after a couple of slow breaths. The weight of the fabric anchors me in my body. The warmth reminds me I’m free. The softness lets me think again.

I’m more me than I’ve been in days. But my muscles are no longer on board with being upright. My legs shake, and I grab the door jamb before I fall.

Asher stands in front of a closet, his back to me. He’s changed into a pair of gray pants, but he’s naked from the waist up.

My gaze catches on the line that shouldn’t be there.

A deep scar cuts across his mid-back, white and uneven against his skin. Old, but not clean work. The kind of damage that comes from someone making a point, not a mistake.

I file the information away. Location. Depth. Direction. The way it tugs on a muscle as he drags a light green t-shirt over his head.

The bed is turned down, and the sheets look as soft as the clothes. My eyes water, exhaustion pulling at me in a way I’m not prepared for. The sound I make is something between a moan and a sob.

“Raine?” Asher turns, and his eyes darken. “Fuck. Can I walk with you? Not touching. Not unless⁠—”

“Your arm,” I say. “Only your arm. On…my terms.”

He moves slowly, letting me track each step, then offers me his forearm, hand loose, palm down.

His skin is warm. Muscles shift under my fingers. Strength I borrow for the half dozen steps to the bed.

When I let go and lower myself onto the mattress, he retreats to the doorway.

“I’ll be in the living room. If you need—or want—anything.”

The space in the room presses in on me, gravity shifting enough to leave me unmoored.

“Stay,” I whisper. “In here. Not…too close. Please?”

Asher nods and returns to the chair across from the bed. He sits like he’s on watch. Alert. Shoulders held. Hands relaxed where I can see them.

The stillness settles, crowding the room without touching me and stealing all the air from my lungs.

They turned silence into a weapon.

It took away my anchors. I couldn’t measure myself against anything beyond my own unraveling.

“Asher?” My voice thins, nearly lost.

His gaze lifts immediately. “I’m here.”

“Could you—” I swallow. My throat tightens, words stacking up and refusing to come out cleanly. My fingers curl into the blanket, grounding on the texture. If I don’t ask now, I won’t ask at all. “Could you put something on? Not loud. Just…there. I need sound. Silence…hurts.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I have an app,” he says. “Sleep sounds. No lyrics. They’re designed to be soothing. We could try that. There’s a Bluetooth speaker in the living room.”