Page 65 of Bearly Out Loud

He had. The cab ride from Tribeca to the brownstone had included a stop at Keiser Tower—fresh shirt, quick check on the security deployment. The new shirt was dark gray. Henley. The top two buttons undone because he’d dressed in forty seconds flat.

“The old one had cab vinyl on the sleeves.”

“You were gripping hard enough to leave marks.” Not a question. That sharp, impossible perceptiveness—seeing the truth he hadn’t offered and pulling it out anyway. “With your bare hands. On the way to my apartment.”

He didn’t deny it.

Her arms uncrossed. She stepped back from the doorway. Not an invitation—not exactly. An opening. The difference between “come in” and “I’m not going to stop you.”

He stepped into the room. Blue walls, white trim, a twin bed with a quilt that looked hand-stitched. Bookshelves crammed with manga and childhood trophies. A window overlooking the brownstone’s back garden. This was Nari’s childhood bedroom, barely updated, preserved like a time capsule of the girl she’d been before she was the woman standing in front of him.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Drew her knees up. The Celestial Ronin shirt stretched over her thighs. Her feet were bare and her toenails were painted dark red and she was watching him stand in her childhood bedroom at one in themorning with an expression that was equal parts exhausted and hungry.

“You can sit. The chair by the desk doesn’t bite.”

He sat. The desk chair creaked under him—built for a teenager, not a man his size. His knees nearly touched the bed frame. The room was small and he was large and she was close and the scent of her—soap, warm skin, the faint sweetness of her shampoo—filled every inch of the space.

“The security detail is in place.” He kept his voice low. The brownstone was quiet—Akemi and James were downstairs, Takumi was in the guest room with Emi. “Two on the street. One in the lobby. Reo’s running the footage overnight.”

“I know.” She tipped her head back against the wall. The line of her throat caught the lamplight. “Reo texted me the deployment summary. Bullet points. Military format. He signs his texts ‘RT.’ Who does that?”

“Reo.”

“Reo.” She smiled. Tired, genuine, aimed at the ceiling. “I like him. He’s aggressively competent. It’s soothing.”

They sat in the small, quiet room. Her childhood trophies on the shelf. His knees against her bed frame. The sound of the city muffled by brownstone walls and a garden and a family that had closed ranks around her the moment she’d walked through the door.

“Dojin.”

“Yeah.”

“Stop looking at my legs.”

He lifted his eyes. She was grinning—tired, sharp, delighted at catching him. She’d noticed him noticing and decided to enjoy it instead of punish it.

“I wasn’t?—”

“You were. You’ve been staring at my knees for thirty seconds. I’m wearing a Celestial Ronin T-shirt and no pantsand you’re in a chair that’s too small for you and your ears are red.” She leaned forward. “Your ears turn red when you’re embarrassed. I’ve been tracking that since the rooftop.”

She’s been tracking my ears.

“For the record—” His voice had dropped—lower, rougher, the growl that surfaced when something in him pushed through. “You make it very difficult to maintain professional boundaries.”

“We discussed this in the hallway. Professional boundaries are scheduled for later.” She pulled her knees tighter to her chest. The grin softened into a real smile. “Stay until I fall asleep.”

Not a question. Not a request. A statement delivered like a line reading—precise, timed, with the full understanding that the answer was predetermined.

“Okay.”

She lay down. Pulled the quilt over her. Her wet hair fanned across the pillow and her eyes stayed on him—watchful, warm, fighting sleep with stubborn intensity. She didn’t surrender to anything, including exhaustion.

He reached across the gap between the chair and the bed. Found her hand on top of the quilt. Laced his fingers through hers. Her hand was small in his—warm, dry, strong—and she squeezed once. Hard. Then her grip softened as her breathing evened out.

Seven minutes. She was asleep in seven minutes. The Celestial Ronin shirt bunched at her hip. Her hand slack in his. Her face stripped of every defense she wore during the day—the sarcasm, the volume, the thousand-watt presence that filled every room she entered. In sleep, she was quiet. Small. The mouth that never stopped talking was still, and the stillness was so foreign on her face that his chest ached with the privilege of seeing it.

He didn’t let go of her hand.

Sat in her childhood desk chair in her parents’ brownstone with his fingers laced through hers and the sound of her breathing filling the room and something in him settling—finally, completely settling—into the certainty that she was safe, warm, close, and his.