Chapter Five #2
I woke to sunlight filtering through the cheap blinds, painting stripes across Nova’s bare shoulder.
She slept curled toward me, her brown hair spilling across the pillow, one small hand tucked under her cheek.
In sleep, the worry lines between her brows had smoothed out, making her look younger, vulnerable in a way she never allowed when awake.
I watched the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, memorizing the pattern of freckles across her nose, the curve of her lips that had been so insistent against mine hours before.
Reality waited just outside this room -- danger, evidence, a conspiracy that had already claimed lives -- but for these few stolen moments, I allowed myself to simply watch her sleep.
Last night felt like it belonged to another life -- intense, unexpected, necessary.
By morning, I no longer knew where we stood.
The woman sleeping beside me had slipped under my skin in ways I hadn’t anticipated when the President assigned me to watch her.
I had crossed every boundary, and I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.
Nova stirred, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks before she blinked awake. For a moment, confusion clouded her features, quickly replaced by recognition as her gaze found mine.
“Morning,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep, that Southern lilt more pronounced.
“Morning,” I replied, suddenly aware of my own nakedness, of the intimacy of sharing this small bed surrounded by the evidence of her mother’s murder. Last night, in the heat of passion, it had seemed right. Now, it felt complicated.
She sat up, pulling the sheet around her like armor. “What time is it?”
I checked my watch on the nightstand. “Just after seven.”
Nova nodded, running a hand through her tangled hair. The bandage on her palm -- the one I’d carefully applied after she cut herself on the metal fragment -- was coming loose. I reached for it automatically, doctor’s instincts taking over.
“Let me check that.” I took her hand before she could pull away.
She let me examine the cut, her eyes watching my face rather than my hands. “Is it bad?”
“No.” I felt relieved to see the wound was clean with no signs of infection. “But we should change the bandage after you shower.”
“Okay.” She withdrew her hand slowly, hesitating like she wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. “I’m going to…” She gestured toward the bathroom.
“Of course.” I moved aside, giving her space to slip past me.
When the bathroom door closed, I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. This awkwardness wasn’t what I’d expected. Last night had been intense, passionate… but morning brought with it a reality we both seemed unprepared to face.
I found my jeans and shirt, dressing quickly.
My cut still lay on the floor where it had fallen last night.
I picked it up, brushing off the leather before putting it on -- armor of a different kind.
By the time Nova emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel with damp hair curling around her shoulders, I was in the kitchen, coffee brewing and toast in the toaster.
“Smells good.” She hovered in the doorway like she wasn’t sure of her welcome in her own kitchen.
“Not much of a breakfast, but it’s something. Coffee’s almost ready.”
She nodded and disappeared into the bedroom. When she returned, she wore jeans and a simple T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Seeing her fully dressed hit me with the sudden ache of how much I already missed the intimacy we’d shared.
I handed her a mug of coffee, careful to avoid touching her fingers with mine. “Sugar’s on the counter if you want it.”
“Thanks.” She added a spoonful, stirring slowly, her eyes focused on the swirling liquid rather than on me. “About last night…”
The toast popped up, saving me from having to respond immediately. I busied myself with butter and plates, giving myself time to form a response that wouldn’t make this moment more awkward than it already was.
“It’s okay.” I set a plate in front of her. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
Nova looked up at that, her hazel gaze meeting mine directly for the first time that morning. “That’s not --” She stopped, took a sip of coffee, tried again. “I don’t regret it. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
Relief washed through me, though I tried not to show it. “Good. Neither do I.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes, the awkwardness not quite gone but lessened somewhat. I watched her nibble at her toast, noting the way she kept fidgeting with her coffee mug, turning it in small circles between her palms.
“This doesn’t change anything about the investigation,” she said finally, breaking the silence. Her voice was steadier now, more confident, like she was on familiar ground.
“Your safety is still my priority. Nothing changes that.”
We both reached for the butter knife at the same time, our fingers brushing. We pulled back simultaneously, the brief contact sending an electric current up my arm. Her cheeks flushed pink, the freckles across her nose standing out more prominently.
“Sorry,” we said in unison, then shared a small, tentative smile at the coincidence.
“We should call the President,” I said, steering us back to safer territory. “Let him know what we found at the crash site. And about Bailey.”
Nova nodded, visibly relaxing as we moved into the familiar territory of the investigation. “We need to analyze that metal fragment too. Even though it’s the same color as my parents’ car, it’s possible it doesn’t belong to theirs.”
“I know someone who can help with that. Retired forensics expert who owes me a favor. We can trust him to be discreet. And if that doesn’t belong to your parents’ car and they were run off the road, there’s a good chance they used a vehicle of the same color to avoid noticeable paint transference.”
“Good.” She took another sip of coffee, her gaze drifting toward the bedroom where the evidence waited. “I should get back to my mother’s files. There might be something else we missed, something that connects to Bailey or the Blood Pagans.”
I noticed how she said “we” now, not “I” -- a small shift that felt significant. Whatever had happened between us, we were in this together now, beyond just my assignment to protect her.
“Your mother was building a solid case. If we can figure out exactly what she found, who she was about to expose…”
“Then we’ll know who killed her,” Nova finished, her features hardening. She set down her mug with purpose. “I need to get back to work.”
I watched her rise from the table, noting the renewed energy in her movements. Last night had been a release, a moment of connection amid the tension and fear. Now, it seemed, we were both ready to channel that energy back into the investigation.
“I’ll help.” I trailed her into the bedroom where her mother’s files lay scattered across the bed and floor, evidence of both the case we built and the passion we’d shared.
Nova turned to me, her expression softening for just a moment. “Doc… Winston…” She hesitated, then reached out to touch my arm briefly. “Thank you. For everything.”
The simple touch felt more intimate than our night together, somehow. I covered her hand with mine, allowing myself this one moment of connection before we returned to the work ahead.
“Always,” I promised, meaning it more than I should have, more than was wise given the danger surrounding us.
She nodded once, then turned back to her mother’s files, already refocusing on the investigation.
I watched her kneel beside the bed, gathering scattered papers with practiced hands, and knew that whatever had shifted between us last night, one thing remained constant -- her determination to find justice for her parents.
And mine to keep her alive while she did it.
* * *
Nova transformed the small living room into a war room within minutes, her organizational skills impressive as she taped papers to the walls and spread folders across the coffee table.
I helped where I could, but this was her domain, her mother’s legacy.
She worked with a focused intensity that reminded me of triage in combat -- life and death hanging on the ability to find patterns in chaos.
The metal fragment we’d recovered sat in a sealed evidence bag at the center of it all, a physical reminder of what was at stake.
I watched her small hands move with purpose, no trace of our earlier awkwardness remaining as we fell into a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural.
“These are the financial records my mother had been tracking,” Nova explained, spreading several pages of bank statements across the coffee table. “She highlighted these transactions, but I never understood what pattern she was seeing.”
I kneeled beside her, examining the documents, looking for anomalies, to identify what didn’t belong. These numbers told a story, just like vital signs on a patient chart.
“Look at the dates.” I pointed to a series of transactions. “Five-thousand-dollar withdrawals, always on the fifteenth of the month, from an account labeled RH Enterprises.”
Nova’s eyes widened as she pulled another document from a folder. “And deposits of the same amount to these accounts --” she pointed to several names “-- all within twenty-four hours of the withdrawals.”
“Shell companies?” I suggested, scanning the unfamiliar business names.
“Maybe.” She bit her lower lip, a gesture I now recognized as her thinking deeply. “But why the consistent schedule? Why always the same amount?”
I studied the pattern, something clicking in my mind. “It’s too regular to be payment for services that might vary month to month. This looks more like…”
“Rent,” Nova finished, our thoughts aligning. “Or a retainer fee.”