Page 248 of Immune

Her hat waits on the edge of the planter bed and she stares at it for a long moment before taking it. Then she sets it next to her instead of placing it on her head.

That feels like something, but I don’t name it. Naming things too early can sometimes kill them.

Instead, we sit on the floor between the planters after I’ve dressed and discarded the condom. Our backs are against the table and shoulders are almost touching. Her hair stays loose and her bandana stays at her neck.

Minutes pass, more than I expect and more than she planned. I know, because every few breaths, she looks at the door like she remembers she meant to leave.

But then she stays.

Eventually, her head tilts sideways and rests against my shoulder. It’s like a warning shot of comfort, and I don’t dare move.

Outside, the compound holds Maine, secrets, Hale’s suspicion, Mercer’s guilt, and every ugly answer still waiting to open its mouth. But inside, Dakota breathes against me.

Soft doesn’t mean safe. It doesn’t mean fixed. And it doesn’t mean forgiven, healed, or whole.

But it does exist.

Here.

In the damp, green darkness.

In the space between her shoulder and mine.

In the fact that when she eventually whispers, “I should go,” she doesn’t move an inch.

So I answer the only way that matters. “Not yet.”

Dakota closes her eyes.

And then she stays.

THIRTY-SEVEN

DAKOTA

The compound literally has rules for absolutely everything.

Doors.

Meals.

Showers.

Medical checks.

Weapons storage.

Farting in enclosed areas.

Who’s allowed to walk down which hallways and who gets to pretend like the answer is all about safety instead of control. It takes me less than a whole day to understand that Haven Ridge doesn’t run on faith, trust, and pixie dust. It runs on carefully crafted systems. And we all know systems are just cages with the necessary paperwork.

The morning after Maine comes back, I find myself sitting in a meeting room with a cracked plastic table, two guards standing sentinel outside the door, one camera in the corner, and the incredibly strong desire to gnaw through a wall just to see if anyone decided to jot that down in a report.

My hair is hidden again, hat tucked back on my head, and my bandana is pulled over half of my face like before. My scent is smothered as best as I can manage with blockers that feel like they’re losing every valid argument inside my bloodstream.

It kind of feels weird now. Wrong in a way it didn’t yesterday.

Last night, my hair was loose in a greenhouse under the warmth of grow lights. My bandana remained around my neckand Xeon’s hands were on me like I wasn’t a walking wound, or a name in a file, or a thing to be handled with heavy doses of pity. For a few stolen moments, I finally had skin rather than armor.