Page 62 of Operation: Defiance

A brief flush of heat crawls up my neck. He smells like the outdoors. Like rain and trees and pine. While I’m covered in a layer of grit and grime so wrong I can feel it without looking.

Turning my focus to the glass, I try to force my fingers to cooperate. They don’t, and the liquid almost sloshes onto the nightstand.

“I can get a straw,” he offers. “Or hold it. Or we can wait.”

“No straws.” The words escape shattered, and he freezes. “Hold it. No movement. Let me do that.”

“Can I sit on the edge of the bed?” he asks. “I don’t want to stand over you. But I will if that’s better.”

I inhale too quickly, and my eyes burn.

I hadn’t known that mattered until he said it.

“Yes,” I say. “You can sit. But I need to see your hands. The whole time.”

“You will. And if you say the word, I’ll back away.”

The mattress dips. He doesn’t touch me. He lifts the glass and brings it close enough that I can angle it with the heel of my hand.

The liquid tastes faintly of strawberries.

No chemicals. No sickly sweet aftertaste. Real.

Tears leak from my eyes without permission.

“I’m not crying,” I say.

“I know.” There’s no pity in his voice. No humor. “Your body’s processing. That takes a minute.”

I file that away for later. When thinking doesn’t feel so…hard.

Two more sips, each one easier than the last, until my stomach cramps hard enough to stop me.

“Enough,” I say. “Any more, and I’ll throw up.”

He’s back in the chair in seconds. Giving me space. He’s not asking anything. Yet, he’s offered me more in the past few minutes than I can name.

“You’ll…stay over there?” I hate how small my voice sounds.

“Unless you need me to be somewhere else. Yes.”

I press my useless fingers to my stomach, breathing through another cramp before I risk speaking again.

“I can’t have anyone touch me without warning. Or consent. I don’t know how long that’ll be true.”

“As long as it needs to be,” he says. “I won’t touch you unless you ask. And I won’t be offended if you never do.”

Something in my chest tightens—something fragile and dangerous and uncomfortably close to hope.

“I’m not okay,” I whisper.

“I know.” Asher settles back, his hands loose on the arms of the chair. “But you’re alive. And you’re not alone. We’ll take the rest one piece at a time.”

I believe him.

That surprises me most of all.