Page 114 of Operation: Defiance

When I nod, he lowers himself onto the mattress, picks up the mug, and holds it where I can reach it with the heel of my hand.

“Same as before,” he says. “You guide.”

The first sip is too hot in the best way. The warmth spreads down my throat and settles in my chest.

I manage to pick up two crackers and three pieces of banana on my own. It’s a tiny victory—something I never would have thought to catalog before—but an important one.

I finish more than I expect before my stomach tightens in warning.

“That’s good,” I say. “For now.”

Asher takes the mug back immediately, sets it on the tray, and returns to the chair. Blanket over his legs. Hands visible.

The space between us stills, broken only by the music from the living room. The music he hasn’t turned off since I admitted I couldn’t stand the silence.

I could close my eyes. Stay quiet. Quiet is safe.

No.

That’s what they wanted. And they don’t get to choose for me anymore.

My thumb drifts toward my index finger. A small, automatic movement, searching for the familiar texture of the band that used to live there.

There’s nothing.

I press my hand into the blanket instead, grounding on the weight and the texture until the spiral loosens its grip.

I can do this. Have a conversation with the man who’s risked everything to stay between me and the door.

“You’ve seen me at my worst,” I say. “And I don’t know anything about you.”

His brows lift. “That’s not true. You know I break into terrible places and steal their worst secrets with no actual plan.”

“That’s…data.” Something unexpected pulls at my lips. Not quite a smile, but almost. “Not you.”

He considers that for a second, then nods. “Fair.”

He shifts in the chair, hands still where I can see them. “I’ll tell you three things about me no one else knows. Me. Not my work.”

“Okay.”

“One,” he says. “I cook when I can’t sleep. Hence the eggs this morning and the entirely unnecessary number of spices in the kitchen.”

A flicker of something like amusement stirs low in my chest. “That explains the marjoram. I’ve never seen a single recipe that uses marjoram.”

“It came with the spice rack,” he says, his eyes softening, crinkling at the edges. “Even I don’t have a use for marjoram.”

“And two?” My voice is getting stronger. Every word not followed by a correction is reassurance that maybe…I’ll find myself again.

“I own more burner phones than I do suits. And I own too many suits.”

“Occupational hazard?” I ask.

“Something like that.” Another grin, this one more relaxed. It highlights dimples I hadn’t noticed before.

“Three. I read manuals for fun. Not the glossy kind. The dense, badly translated ones no one touches unless something’s on fire.”

Of course he does.