Chapter Twenty-Eight
Asher
Raine stays very still, like her body hasn’t caught up to the fact that the assault of information has stopped.
I give her space to decide the next movement. She takes two careful breaths, each one deeper than the last, then lifts her chin.
This is bravery. Choosing to stay when it would be so much easier to go.
“You need anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head, but it’s not dismissal. More like she’s sorting through the dozen things she could ask for, but hasn’t chosen one yet.
Her gaze flicks to me—quick, precise, assessing without apology.
Not checking if I’m okay.
Checking if I’m steady.
If I can hold the line a little longer.
“I’m right here.”
Something in her posture loosens by a degree. She nods once, and I feel the shift of trust like a hand settling on my shoulder.
She’s done for now.
And what she needs next isn’t analysis.
It’s normalcy.
Rest. Food. Warmth.
A life.
“Let’s take a break,” I say. “We can figure out the next step after the sun comes up.”
She doesn’t argue. That alone tells me how much today cost her.
And how much she intends to keep fighting.
Raine
Asher doesn’t hover. He moves through the safe house with the same practiced unobtrusiveness I’ve come to rely on. He’s close enough to anchor me, far enough that I don’t feel watched. At some point, he sets a bowl of soft scrambled eggs next to me with a light grating of Parmesan dusting the top.
I didn’t know I was hungry until I saw it.
My stomach accepts a little more than half of it. Not exactly a meal, but more than survival. Another small step toward normalcy.
But as I warm my hands around the mug of tea, the sweatshirt shifts against my bare ribs, reminding me how far I still have to go. My cheeks catch fire, and I fix my gaze to a small imperfection in the tile floor.
Everything touching my body is borrowed. Temporary.
I don’t have underwear.
Or a bra.
Or anything that belongs to me.
Pushing the hair away from my face, my fingers snag on a knot. I must make a sound, because Asher looks up from the chair. “Pain?”
“No.”
Not pain. Just the weight of another problem I can’t solve with what I have.
“I…want to shower,” I say quietly. “But…I don’t have anything to put on afterward.”
The heat in my face rises, not embarrassment so much as vulnerability over admitting something this basic out loud.
Asher’s focus sharpens immediately. He’s not judging me. There’s no pity in his gaze. He’s mapping the problem.
“Then we’ll fix that.”
“I don’t have money. Or ID. Or anything that makes shopping…possible.”
“We can work around that particular challenge.” His tone is steady, practical.
He’s already given me days. His time. His care. His steadiness. Everything I didn’t know how to ask for. He just keeps…showing up. Meeting the need the moment I find the edge of it.
“I—” The word catches on the fear of wanting anything because it could be taken away. “You don’t have to keep…doing all of this.”
“You need clothes,” he says. “So we get you clothes.”
There’s no implication. No expectation. No unspoken transaction.
Just practicality wrapped in gentleness.
It almost shatters me.
I clear my throat. “I don’t know how to start.
Online, I mean. I don’t know how to choose anything without touching it.
Checking seams. Labels. Fabric. Shopping has always been hard for me.
I buy the same top in four colors so I know it will always feel right, because if it doesn’t…
it can be destabilizing.” I fight not to shrink back into myself. “And I can’t go anywhere.”
“Then we choose together,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You tell me what works for your body. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Something deep inside—knotted tight for days—loosens.
“Okay,” I murmur.
Asher moves to the couch first. He sits at one end, pulls his laptop onto his thighs, and waits.
I try not to think too hard about how close I choose to sit to him. Close enough to feel the heat of him through the sweatshirt. To catch a hint of his scent. Of spice and fresh air and him.
“What’s first? What does your body want most?” he asks.
I don’t have to think about the answer.
“Underwear.” My cheeks warm. “I’m tired of feeling…so exposed.”
He nods once, completely unfazed. “Tell me what matters.”
“Seamless,” I say. “Nothing fancy. A wide waistband, gentle elastic. No lace. No tags.”
He pulls up the website for one of the larger department stores, scrolls past all the pretty, fancy options, then stops on a pair that looks gentle. Comfortable. I recognize the brand.
“That one,” I say.
“What color?” he asks.
I blink. “I…get to choose?”
His expression shifts in that subtle way I’m learning is recognition, not pity.
“Raine,” he says gently, “you’re the one wearing them.”
Oh.
“Black. Or gray. Two pairs.”
He adds them, then pauses, waiting for me to tell him where to go next instead of assuming.
“Bras,” I say before I can second-guess it. “I need…something soft. No molded cups. No wires. Nothing that pulls at my shoulder.”
He nods once and scrolls—slowly, giving me time to veto anything that looks wrong. Some are too built, too shaped, too intentional. I shake my head and he moves past each one without comment.
“More like that,” I say when a simpler style appears. “Smooth fabric. No padding. Light support.”
He scrolls until he finds another in that same category.
“These work?” he asks, not selecting, just keeping the screen still so I can breathe through the decision.
I study them, listening for the internal flinch that’s become my compass.
“Yes. Those two.”
He adds them.
I steady myself. “Pants next.”
He scrolls again—cotton-blend joggers, soft waistbands, nothing with buttons or structure.
“That pair,” I say.
“And tops?” he asks, after I glance toward the screen.
“Short sleeves. And a tank. Maybe two. Soft fabric. No tags. Loose around the ribs.”
He scrolls slowly. A simple cotton tank catches my eye—clean lines, nothing scratchy.
“That one,” I say.
A few swipes later, we find a short-sleeve tee—muted, soft, something I could live inside for hours.
“And that one,” I add.
A dark gray hoodie. A light, waterproof jacket. He pauses, waits for my nod, then adds them too.
“What about socks?” he asks.
The question hits somewhere tender. Socks are ordinary. Normal. Proof I’m building a life again.
“Yes. Black. Mid-calf length. Two pairs.”
“Done. Anything else?”
I fiddle with a dry, tangled lock of hair, and wince. “Conditioner? Unscented or something citrusy. And a detangling brush.”
He enters every word exactly as I say it, waits for me to approve each item, and adds them to the cart.
I hesitate. “Do they have L’Occitane shea butter lotion?”
He adds it without blinking. “Anything else you used every day? Cleanser? Moisturizer? Makeup?”
“Moisturizer,” I whisper, the answer slipping out before I can measure it. “Unscented. Light.”
He nods, already searching for one that meets the criteria. No commentary, no curiosity—just care.
Shoes come last.
“Soft,” I say. “Nothing with pressure points. Something I can put on without bracing.”
He finds a pair that look stable in a matte black. No laces to fumble with. He tilts the screen a little so I can decide.
“That one. Size nine.”
By the time the order is complete, my chest feels…looser. Enough for me to breathe. To recognize myself again.
Asher sets the laptop aside, then checks his watch.
“Everything will be ready in twenty minutes. We need a few groceries too. If I leave now, I can be back in under an hour.”
A flicker of unease moves through me. I’m not afraid. But I’m not sure I’m ready for him to leave for the first time either. To exist in a space with no expectations.
But I want these things.
I want the version of me who wears them.
Asher
The drive is short, but my body is tuned tight the whole way. Not panicked—just aware. Aware she’s alone. Aware that she asked for what she needed, and is trusting me to carry it.
I pull onto a quiet side street and make a call before I reach the store to add the things she didn’t ask for.
Multiples of the shirts, pants, and underwear.
Another package of socks—thicker ones. A sleep shirt from the same brand as the leggings.
Nothing risky. Just enough that she won’t have to ration herself.
The associate confirms they’ll have everything ready when I arrive.
I park where I can see everything. Corners, angles, no blind spots.
Inside, the pickup counter is quiet. The associate brings out four large paper bags. I check the name, the weight—by feel, not by opening anything—and nod my thanks.
Back in the car, I run a hand over one of them.
Her choices.
Her textures.
Her autonomy.
It shouldn’t mean as much as it does.
I stop at a small market a few blocks from the safe house on the way back. Before long, we’ll need a proper grocery order, but until then, I want her to have choices.
Yogurt. Applesauce. Another banana. Oatmeal.
Food that won’t argue with a cautious stomach.
The drive back feels longer. Maybe because I don’t like the idea of her sitting with too much silence. Maybe because I want to put these into her hands. Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, this job isn’t just a job.
And I’m not pretending otherwise.
When I reach the safe house and unlock the door, I call her name softly before stepping fully inside.
“I’m back.”
She exhales—a sound so quiet most men would miss it. But I’m not most men.
I set the bags down on the bed.
“These are yours.”
The way she touches them…
Worth every second.
Raine
The bags are warm in my hands. I don’t open them right away. I just hold them, anchoring myself to their weight. Proof I didn’t imagine any of this.
When I finally sort through the first one, everything feels right. The textures. Fabrics. Scents. More than I remember choosing—but not wrong. The brush won’t snag. The hair ties won’t pull.
I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat.