Chapter 57
I woke up in my own bed, but I wasn’t alone.
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Richard’s arm was draped around my waist–heavy, warm, completely unconscious. His face was buried in the crook of my neck, his breath soft and even against my skin. For a second, I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My brain short–circuited with the fact that this had never happened–not like this. Not
here.
He’d fallen asleep on the far side of my bed last night, after I’d spent hours combing through war records and troop logs, my brain too wired to rest. I hadn’t expected him to stay–although he had been more drawn to my bed recently. In his bed, lines blurred sometimes, especially in the quiet of late nights. But in mine, it always felt like he was careful. Like this space belonged to me in a different way, and he didn’t want to cross too far into something that was mine. That, somehow, it
would mean more.
But here he was. And maybe he didn’t even know.
I’d struggled to fall asleep. My thoughts had been restless, wound tight—not just from the investigation, but from the way he’d looked leaning against the doorframe, the gentle cadence of his
voice, the weight of him in the room. There was something about the nearness that made my skin feel too sensitive, my breath too shallow.
And now? Now his hand was low on my waist, not grabbing, not holding me in place, but settling there like it belonged. Like I belonged.
He looked younger like this. Less guarded. Tired and undone in a way he never let anyone see. And I didn’t care if it meant reading too far into a sleep–driven accident–I soaked it in.
He’d never touched me in my bed.
That had always felt deliberate. Intentional. Like the space between us mattered more in my room. But now–whether he’d followed me in half–asleep or I’d mumbled something in the dark–he was here, and he looked like he needed me.
Not want. Need.
His brow was furrowed even in sleep, like his whole body hadn’t let go in days. Weeks. I took it in: the tension in his jaw, the scruff brushing my shoulder, the way his hand had settled low on my waist without grabbing, just… holding. Anchoring.
I stayed there as long as I could, memorizing the moment, letting the warmth of him press into places I usually kept locked.
Then slowly, carefully, I eased out from under his arm and let the chill hit me.
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Chapter 57
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It was going to be a long day.
The light outside my window had shifted to early gray when I slipped into a hoodie and padded into the sitting room. The coffee was halfway to cold by the time I realized I was still thinking about the night before–the box of files, the quiet weight of Richard beside me, the accidental press of his hand on my waist that somehow felt like a promise, or maybe a crack in his armor.
I didn’t know if he remembered. I didn’t know if he even realized. But I felt it, and the feeling stayed
with me.
Eventually, needing to move, I sat at my desk and powered up my terminal. I logged into the summit’s internal database and started scanning for references to Red Fang. Most documents were either locked or redacted beyond recognition, but I kept going. There–tucked deep in an old mission report from over a decade ago–a single reference to Sector Delta. That name had shown up in the anonymous folder too.
Sector Delta.
I clicked the tag and found a crosslink to a logistics manifest. Location: Archive Sublevel 3. Access
Level: Restricted.
Of course it was.
I messaged Emma: Need a reason to poke around Sublevel 3. Can you clear me for logistics file retrieval?
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