Chapter 15
Delilah Barrinheart
The med bay smells like antiseptic and ozone and something faintly metallic that clings to the back of my throat no matter how many times I breathe through my mouth.
It’s too bright, all white walls and reflective steel, the kind of place where silence feels louder than screaming.
I move through it on autopilot, hands steady even though my head feels like it’s packed with fog, following muscle memory more than thought as I clean and wrap a gash along a soldier’s ribs.
He hisses when I press gauze into the worst of it, and I murmur a quiet apology out of habit, though my voice sounds distant to my own ears.
I don’t look at him for long. I don’t look at anyone for long.
If I do, I might anchor myself too firmly in this moment, and I don’t know if I can handle that yet.
My hands know what to do even if my mind doesn’t. Clean. Assess. Wrap. Secure. Move on.
The soldier and his buddy keep talking like I’m not there, like I’m part of the furniture instead of the one stitching him back together.
Normally that would bother me. Normally I’d say something dry, something clipped, just to remind them I exist. Today, I let it happen.
Their voices blur together, a low background noise I cling to because it’s better than the alternative—because the moment the room goes quiet, my thoughts get louder.
“…sparring went sideways,” one of them says with a chuckle that doesn’t quite land. “Jon’s gonna lose his shit when he hears—”
My fingers falter for half a second.
I force them to keep moving.
It’s ridiculous. One kiss shouldn’t do this.
One reckless, infuriating, absolutely wrong kiss shouldn’t live in my head the way it does, replaying in flashes of heat and breath and the way my entire world went still for just one stolen second.
The way he grabbed my face like I was the answer to a question he’d been refusing to ask.
The way I kissed him back just enough to ruin us both.
I try to drown it out by focusing on the conversation, on the talk of upcoming ops and shifting schedules, on the familiar rhythm of military life continuing like nothing happened, like I didn’t break and get put back together with a thousand invisible cracks.
Like I’m not standing in the med bay because he said I would, because he decided this is how I help now.
But my brain doesn’t listen.
It drifts, traitorous and soft, to other kisses.
Other missions.
Other lies we told together.
The memory slides in uninvited, vivid and sharp, and suddenly I’m not in the med bay anymore.
I’m pressed against a brick wall in some nameless city, night heavy and close around us, the air thick with smoke and neon and too many watching eyes.
Music pulses from somewhere inside the club behind us, bass threading through the pavement.
I’m in a dress that isn’t mine, heels I hate, a persona that fits too well.
Jon’s hand is warm at my lower back, steady and sure, his body angled just enough to shield me from the crowd while making it look like he owns the space between my legs and the wall.
“In five,” he murmurs under his breath, not looking at me, not touching me anywhere that would raise suspicion. “They’re watching.”
“I know,” I whisper back, heart hammering, nerves alive and electric. “I feel it.”
His gaze finally flicks to mine, sharp and assessing, and there’s no Jon there—no captain, no friend of my father’s, no man who tells me I’m one of the best and then looks at me like that costs him something.
Just a stranger who needs to sell the lie.
A dangerous man in dark clothes and colder control.
He dips his head and kisses me like it’s nothing, like it’s part of the job, like it doesn’t send a shock straight through my chest. It’s quick, convincing, practiced.
His mouth is firm, controlled, his hand steady at my back, and when he pulls away, there’s no heat in his eyes, no hesitation.
No sign that my knees almost gave out just from the weight of his mouth on mine.
“Good,” he says quietly. “You’re doing great.”
The mission goes off without a hitch. Afterwards, Larkin claps us on the shoulders and says our chemistry is believable enough that we should keep pairing up.
And we do. Again and again. Kisses that mean nothing.
Touches that are just for show. Nights spent shoulder to shoulder in safehouses, breathing too carefully in the dark.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
The memory fractures, the edges blurring, and I’m yanked back into the med bay by a voice that cuts a little too clean through the haze.
“—heard her dad’s coming by today,” someone says.
My heart stutters.
“What?” another voice asks. “The retired one? The big guy?”
“Yeah. Him. Surprise visit or something.”
The world tilts.
My hands go numb, and I finish the wrap with movements that are just a little too fast before stepping back. I barely register the soldier thanking me. My pulse is roaring in my ears now, drowning out everything else.
Today.
He’s here today.
I back away from the bed and then turn, walking faster than I should, my boots echoing too loudly against the floor.
I need to get out. I need air. I need time that I don’t have.
I need to not run headfirst into the man who still thinks I’m in Europe, in class, building some harmless future instead of bleeding all over Greenport’s secrets.
I don’t make it far.
A hand clamps over my mouth, strong and sure, and I react on instinct, twisting my weight, elbow driving back as I reach for the wrist. My body remembers the move before my brain catches up—Jon’s voice in my head, correcting my stance, telling me where to strike, where to break, how to survive.
The person behind me stiffens—and then laughs, breath puffing warm against my ear.
“Easy,” Jon whispers, barely holding it back. “Jesus, Delilah.”
Relief crashes into me so hard it makes my knees weak.
He pulls me into a supply closet and shuts the door just as footsteps pass outside.
I’m pressed close to him in the dark, the familiar solidity of his presence grounding me in a way I hate that I need.
Shelves dig into my back. The smell of paper towels, bleach, and his soap closes in around me.
My pulse is still sprinting, but for the first time since I heard my father’s name, it’s not because I’m afraid I’m alone.
My father’s voice echoes down the hall, warm and unmistakable. “Captain Jonathan? Anyone know where I can find him?”
Jon bites his lip, shoulders shaking silently.
It comes out anyway, muffled and breathless, the sound of too much tension finally snapping.
The absurdity of it all—me half-healed and hiding in a janitor’s closet with the man who kissed me like a mistake while my father searches the base for him—feels so deranged it circles back around to funny.
The footsteps fade. The voices disappear.
The quiet that follows is thick, almost physical, pressing in on my ears until my breath sounds too loud inside my own head.
I’m still pinned between shelves and his chest, the supply closet barely wide enough for both of us, and now that the immediate danger is gone, I become painfully aware of everything else instead.
Jon’s hand is still over mine where I’d grabbed his wrist. His breathing is steady—too steady, like he hasn’t just narrowly avoided running into my father while hiding his daughter in a supply closet.
The absurdity of it all almost makes me laugh again, but the sound dies before it reaches my throat.
Because now there’s no distraction left.
Just him. His heat. The dark. The memory of his mouth on mine still sitting low and alive in my body.
He lowers his hand slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid I might bolt or shatter if he moves too fast.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
It’s such a simple question. It shouldn’t feel like a trap. But it does, because the honest answer is no, and the easier answer is always yes, and I’m so tired of choosing the easy one.
“I was until about thirty seconds ago,” I murmur, my voice coming out rougher than I intend. My heart is still racing, adrenaline buzzing through my veins, every nerve ending lit up and raw. “You scared the hell out of me.”
A corner of his mouth twitches, guilt flickering across his face. “Had to. You were about to sprint straight into him.”
I huff a quiet laugh, dropping my forehead briefly against his chest before I can stop myself.
The contact is grounding and dangerous all at once.
He stiffens slightly, not pulling away but not leaning in either, like he’s holding himself on a tight leash that’s already fraying.
Beneath my forehead, his heart is beating harder than the rest of him lets on.
That knowledge does something to me. Something soft and stupid.
“I heard them talking,” I say after a moment, lifting my head again. “About him. I didn’t know he was coming. I didn’t know anyone knew.”
Jon exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. “I didn’t either. He showed up unannounced. Wanted to check in, said you’d been hard to reach.”
The guilt hits sharp and sudden, slicing clean through the lingering humor. Of course he’s worried. Of course he is. I’ve built an entire life on half-truths and omissions, and now it’s starting to cave in on itself. Every lie suddenly feels heavier because I can hear his voice attached to it.
“I can’t see him,” I say immediately, panic flaring again. “I can’t. Not like this. Not here.”
“I know,” Jon says, softer now. He reaches up without thinking, his knuckles brushing my temple, then stops himself midway like he’s crossed an invisible line. His hand drops back to his side. The aborted touch feels louder than a grab would have. “That’s why you need to disappear for a bit.”
“Disappear,” I repeat faintly. The word feels too familiar. Too close to other rooms. Other locks. Other times I didn’t have a choice.
He seems to hear it in my voice, because his expression tightens. “Not like that,” he says quickly. “Your quarters. Door locked. No one bothers you. I’ll handle him.”
That should reassure me. It should make me feel taken care of. Safe.
Instead, something bitter curls in my chest.
“You always do,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes flick to mine, sharp and searching, like he’s trying to decide whether to call me on it or let it slide.
The air between us goes tight again, heavy with everything we’re not saying—everything we’ve been circling for months, maybe longer.
The space is too small for lies and too dark for anything honest to stay clean.
“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he says finally.
I swallow. “I know.”
And that’s the problem.
Because I do know. I know the shape of his care now, and it cuts just as deep as his distance. I know how he hides behind orders when he wants to touch me. I know how he looks at me when he thinks I’m too wrecked to notice. I know enough to be ruined by it.
For a second, I really think he’s going to kiss me again.
The space between us narrows, his gaze dropping to my mouth, his jaw tightening like it did before, like it always does right before he pulls away.
His hand flexes once at his side. His breath changes.
Mine does too. The dark turns hot around us, the air suddenly too thin and too intimate.
Instead, he steps back fully this time, opening the closet door just enough to peer out into the hallway. Cold fluorescent light cuts across one side of his face, turning him half shadow, half discipline.
“All clear,” he says. Then, quieter, without looking at me, “Go. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”
I hesitate, every instinct screaming to stay right where I am, pressed into the familiar gravity of him, where everything feels quieter and less sharp.
Where the walls are close and the world is held out by the simple fact of his body being between me and it.
But I nod anyway, because that’s what I’ve always done.
Because I’m good at following orders, even the ones that hurt.
As I slip past him, his hand catches my wrist for just a second—light, grounding, gone almost as soon as it’s there.
“Delilah,” he says, low and steady. “We’ll figure this out.”
I look back at him, really look, at the lines carved deeper into his face these past weeks, at the exhaustion he tries to hide behind authority and control, at the man who keeps choosing duty even when it scrapes him raw. I want to believe him. God, I do.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “We always do.”
I walk away before he can answer, before he can see how much that promise costs me, before the silence between us fills up with all the things we’re both too afraid to name.