Chapter Thirty-Two
Raine
My hands ache.
My back hurts.
My brain feels like it’s vibrating inside my skull.
But tea helps.
Enough that my fingers stop trembling and my vision stops pulling in and out like a faulty lens.
Asher watches me too closely for a man pretending not to watch at all.
“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” I admit as I press my palms to the warm mug.
His brows lift—just slightly.
“Do what?”
“Exist,” I say. “Outside of…that place.”
It’s the closest I’ve come to naming Coherent Path out loud. The words still feel wrong.
Asher doesn’t rush to fill the silence, but eventually, he sits back against the cushions. “You should rest.”
“I can’t.” It slips out before I can stop it. My cheeks warm slightly. “I mean…I’d love to. But I’m too raw. I need my routines or I’m going to spiral.”
“What does that look like?” he asks. “Your routines?”
I shift, turning toward him slightly. My ribs ache, but the pain no longer steals the breath from my lungs. “Dinner. Something light on TV after. Something I’ve seen before. Brushing my teeth. Reading in bed. My brain can settle inside those patterns. I don’t know how to…come down without them.”
He studies me—attentive, not analyzing.
“Then let’s start with dinner,” he says. “Something your body can handle. I can make a loose risotto. It’s close to ‘real’ food, but hopefully not too taxing?”
Relief eases the tension in my shoulders a notch. My stomach makes a noise, and the sensation accompanying it is almost enough to bring tears to my eyes. Hunger. Normal hunger. Not the hollowed out feeling of nothingness I’ve lived with for so long.
“I want to help.”
“You can stir.” His mouth curves the faintest bit. “Only stir. You’ve done enough work today to wipe out three healthy people.”
He isn’t wrong.
Asher moves to the stove, assembling ingredients with quiet efficiency. The safe house is small enough I can feel the warmth from my seat on the couch without needing to get too close. Yet.
“All right. If you still want to help…” After a short time, he offers me a wooden spoon. “If not, relax. This won’t take much longer.”
The tremor in my right hand is back, but my left…I can manage a gentle stir.
Steam rises from the pan, warm against my face, and my breathing starts to match the pace of the spoon.
Asher glances over—checking on me, but not hovering. “If your shoulder starts to bother you, stop. I can take over.”
“It’s fine.”
And it is.
He moves around me with deliberate care, setting out bowls, checking the rice, adding another ladle of broth. The kind of easy coordination you only get when two people understand how to share space without crowding one another.
The scene is so achingly normal, my throat tightens before I can brace for it.
By the time he tastes a small spoonful and nods, the trembling in my hand has eased.
So has the buzzing under my skin.
At the table, the risotto feels…manageable. Food without conditions. Warm and comforting without being fussy.
I take a spoonful. My body doesn’t flinch. A slow, tentative wave of relief moves through me, enough that I try another bite. And another.
By the time I set my spoon down, I’ve finished the bowl—more than I’ve managed since escaping. My stomach holds steady. My breathing stays even.
Asher notices, but his approval is quiet. Just a small shift in his expression, like he’s cataloging all the ways I’m coming back to myself.
“That enough?” he asks.
“For now.” I nod. “It felt…good. Real.”
He doesn’t press. He just finishes his serving and rises to clear the bowls.
“I can help,” I say, pushing my chair back.
“You can relax,” he counters gently. “There’s not much to do.”
I nod. He’s right. And my body is so worn out, I’d probably break any dish I picked up at the moment.
“What do you do when you’re not…working?” I ask, needing something to occupy me besides staring at the walls. Or at him.
He pauses mid-reach for a pot, glances over his shoulder with the specific focus of someone deciding how much to say.
“Depends on where I am,” he says. “Safe houses don’t exactly come with hobbies.”
I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Okay. But when you’re not in one of these places?”
Asher rinses the pot, sets it upside down to dry.
“I spend my life in places like these. I haven’t had a permanent address in…
ten years. But, if I’m not actively working, I cook.
” He shrugs one shoulder. “Not like this. Intricate recipes that require things like kitchen torches and double boilers and mandolines. Cooking keeps my hands busy and my head quiet.”
That tracks. A man who moves like precision personified would take comfort in recipes with rules.
“And when you’re not cooking?”
He leans a hip against the counter, crossing his arms loosely, settling in to the conversation.
“I hike when I can. Long trails. Places without people.” Something flickers in his expression.
Not darkness. Memory. “My dad used to take me out when I was a kid. Learned early on that the world makes more sense when your feet are on dirt instead of concrete.”
It’s the most personal thing he’s said about himself, and my chest tightens with the weight of the trust he’s giving me.
“So you disappear into the woods,” I murmur. “That’s your peace.”
“Sometimes.” His gaze meets mine—steady, unguarded for once. “Other times, I read. Old paperbacks. Half of those shelves were filled from discount bins near the ferry dock.”
I glance toward the living room, where I’d noticed them earlier but hadn’t processed the variety—mysteries, travel journals, one dog-eared sci-fi trilogy. And half a dozen boring, dry, systems manuals.
“That’s more normal than I expected,” I admit quietly.
He smiles—small, real. “Normal’s underrated.”
The tension in my shoulders loosens another notch. The urge to hold myself upright against invisible walls finally eases.
You still hungry?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. I think…that was exactly what I needed.”
Asher nods once, pushing off the counter. “Then let’s get you to the couch. Whatever you want next—TV, book, quiet—I’m here for it.”
Halfway through an old episode of Law & Order, the space between us feels less like a boundary and more like permission.
I let my hand drift toward his on the cushion between us. Our fingers brush.
He doesn’t shift away. I don’t either. And that—God—that might be the most grounding thing he’s done all day.
After the credits roll, we each choose a book from his small collection. An Agatha Christie mystery for me, and a tome on the history of the combustion engine for him, then start going through the motions of bedtime.
For a few moments, we stand side-by-side at the sink. Two people brushing our teeth like no one’s trying to erase me or hunt him.
When I return to the bedroom, I stop short. One of the shopping bags is still on the bed. The one with the nightshirt I know I didn’t order this morning.
It’s just as soft as I remember. Dark blue. No tags. No seams. “Asher, what is this?”
He leans against the doorframe, one brow lifting. “It’s not obvious?”
I look down at the nightshirt, then back at him. “I know it’s a nightshirt. But I didn’t order this. Or anywhere near as many things as were in those bags.”
His slow smile sends warmth blooming in my core. “You’ve been rationing yourself since the minute you woke up here. You deserve better than choosing between one set of clean clothes and another. Or sleeping in your hoodie…unless that’s what you want.”
My fingers flex in the fabric. “Asher…”
“If it doesn’t work, I’ll return it tomorrow. No questions, no pressure. We can order something else or nothing at all.”
The room softens around the edges. “It’s too much,” I whisper. Anything louder would crack me open. He’s been guarding me against hazards I don’t even realize are there.
And he’s done it all because he was in the wrong place at the right time.
“No,” he says, his voice firm, but still gentle. “It’s enough. For now. Because you deserve to have enough.”
He snags the blanket from the chair and, as he sits, his right hand braces against his thigh and his shoulder hitches in a small, sharp way I’ve seen before.
Does he think I haven’t noticed?
I have. He’s trying to hide his pain from me, and once I change, I know the next conversation we’re going to have.
He isn’t sleeping in that chair again.
Asher
Raine disappears back into the bathroom as I try to get comfortable. The old scar throbs even more tonight. Worse, my shoulder’s decided to join the pain party. When this is over—if it’s ever over—I’m going to need a week horizontal.
After a few moments, Raine opens the door, her cheeks tinged red, and her left arm clutched tightly to her chest over the nightshirt. “I…need help again. The bra. I can’t unhook it.”
“Turn around. I’ll wait to approach until you’re ready.“
Her thumb skims her left index finger briefly. I’ve noticed the behavior more than once. Always when her thoughts start to spiral. But she releases a long, slow breath, and steadies. “I think…it’ll be okay even if you don’t narrate the whole time.”
Fuck me.
She’s working so hard at something most people take for granted. I won’t let her push herself beyond what her body’s ready for. “Probably. But I’m going to do it anyway. You say when.”
Raine’s small huff tightens her lips briefly before she turns. “The shoulder straps are off. I got that far. But the band…” Her shoulders heave. “I’m ready.”
“I’m coming up behind you now.” I move slowly, doing my best to announce each footfall. Not the easiest thing while barefoot. She’s tense, but she doesn’t flinch. “Lifting the hem of the nightshirt. You’ll feel my fingers in three, two, one…”
The moment the clasp comes undone, I retreat to the chair. Raine folds the bra and sets it on top of the small dresser in the corner, then climbs into bed, still wearing her leggings and socks.
The music from the living room shifts into something slower. Deeper. I’ll be lucky if I manage five pages of my book before I nod off—even with the chair digging into my back.
“Asher?” She hasn’t picked up her book. Hasn’t settled back against the pillow. As tired as she is, her gaze is still sharp. “You’re hurting.”
The words don’t land as an accusation. Or a question. Merely a fact, delivered with the clarity of someone who’s spent a lifetime reading people.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re compensating,” she counters quietly. “Your left shoulder. And when you stand, you brace your hand on your thigh first. That’s pain.”
Raine has every right to be swallowed by her own recovery, her own trauma, but she sees me so precisely, it’s staggering.
“Risk of the job,” I say. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
She lifts her chin a fraction. “Three nights in that chair isn’t a smart tactical decision.”
She’s telling me she’s ready to be alone.
Shit. I don’t like the idea of leaving her—even if I’m only in the next room.
Parts of her are still fragile, even as others are coming back stronger than steel.
But if she needs to be alone, I won’t argue.
“I’ll take the couch. Door open, though. So you can hear the music.”
“No.”
No?
“It’s a king bed. You can sleep in it. Separate sides. Pillow between us.”
“Raine—“
“I won’t panic. It’s my choice, not something I have to accept from someone else. I’ll feel safer—I’ll be safer if you’re not in pain.” Her voice stays calm. Almost gentle. But underneath the softness is fiercely protective care. “I’ll be okay. Because it’s you. And because I want this.”
The hard edges I’ve held onto for most of my adult life start to crack.
“Okay. But if you change your mind—“
“I won’t.” She releases a slow exhale, and her shoulders settle another degree as she picks up her book.
I brace—fuck, she was right—as I stand, retrieve another pillow from the closet, and set it in the center of the mattress.
A boundary I won’t cross. One I might need more than she does.
Because the trust she’s giving me binds me tighter than any oath I’ve ever taken.
And I’d walk through fire to keep earning it.
Three pages in, Raine’s eyelids start to droop. She sets the book on the nightstand, turns carefully onto her left side, and tugs the blankets up to her neck.
A tiny line deepens between her brows. “You never told me the last name you’re using.”
Closing my own book, I meet her gaze. “My last name is Cole. Asher Cole.”
She chews on that for a moment, almost like she’s tasting the shape of it, then goes very still. “That’s…not an alias.”
“No. It isn’t. I used the name Mason Locke when I checked in at the black site. That’s the name they have. It doesn’t trace back to me in any meaningful way.”
The truth of what I gave her churns in her eyes. Something real. Something I don’t share with just anyone.
“You told me your real name. From the start. Before you’d seen my face or knew…anything about me.” The shock in her voice almost does me in.
“I did. Because you deserved it. And there’s no version of this—of us—where I hide from you.”
Her eyes shine—not with tears, exactly, but with the soft realization that whatever this is, we’re in it together.