Chapter Sixty-Four
Raine
I wake to cool sheets and the violent, disorienting certainty that Asher’s already gone.
Until the shower turns on.
The air rushes back into my lungs. A single tear hits the pillow.
I haven’t lost him. Yet.
For a brief moment, I consider going directly to the laptop. I still need to identify which organization has the best chance of verifying the evidence fast enough to get it into the public record before anyone can bury it.
Instead, I follow the sound of the water.
Asher stands under the spray, his back to me, hands braced on the wall of the shower.
He doesn’t hear me come in. I don’t move right away, taking in the sight of him. The old scar. The dusting of reddish brown hair on his legs. The way his ass flexes when he reaches for the soap.
Eventually, I can’t stand the idea of this much space between us. Not when there’s so much left to say and so little time to say it.
“Asher.”
He turns slowly, a tired smile curving his lips, and holds out his hand.
The water is hot enough to sting. The sensation anchors me while my mind cycles through everything he needs to know before he walks out the door.
“Keep your shoulders loose.” I take the soap from him, working up a lather and tracing patterns over his chest. “If they cuff your hands overhead, don’t fight the angle.”
“Good morning to you too,” he says, and plants a light kiss to my forehead.
“I’m serious.” My voice stays steady by will alone. “They’ll expect resistance. Don’t give them any excuse to hurt you.”
He draws me against him, his expression open in a way that makes my heart ache. “Raine.”
“They’ll distort time. Make you think it’s been longer—or shorter—than it has been. Don’t refuse water. Dehydration is one of the first ways you’ll lose focus.”
His hands mold to my waist. “I know how these sorts of things generally go. I’ve survived them before.”
“Not this,” I manage. “GSD…they won’t play by the rules. Not after I send the first batch of files.”
My mind fractures, part of it here with Asher, memorizing how his hands feel against my skin, another part working out what I’ll say when—if—Northbridge makes contact, and the last part screaming at the injustice of…everything.
He brushes his thumb along the line of my jaw. “You don’t have to coach me through it.”
“Yes, I do. Please.”
If I can’t focus on logistics, I’ll say something else. I’ll blurt out the three words that will break me if he doesn’t come back. They might break me anyway, but if he’s here, at least I’ll survive it.
“If they don’t let you sleep, use the breaks. Don’t refuse medical care. Document everything in your head.”
He exhales once, almost a laugh. “You’re much better with that than I am.”
“If they move you between rooms, count steps. Turns, doors, walls. Build a map. Even if you never need it, it’ll keep your head clearer if you treat everything like a problem to solve.”
He traces slow circles over my lower back with his thumbs. Does he know how much the sensation grounds me? How much I’ve come to depend on it? How scared I am to lose this?
“Time is the first thing they’ll strip away. But when they escalate—because they will once I start releasing information—you’ll be able to find it again. I’ll have the first packet out before five. I don’t know when the others will go, but—”
“It’s something.” He dips his head, kisses me gently, and pulls me against him. “I need you to promise me you’ll eat.”
“Asher.”
“Promise me.” His voice splinters at the edges, and he slides a hand into my hair. “I need to know you’ll be safe.”
“I’ll eat. I’ll try to sleep.”
He studies me long enough that I avert my gaze and focus on his lips instead.
I want to tell him not to go. That I need him. That last night wasn’t about comfort or fear or strategy or even release.
It was about choice.
About choosing him.
The intense pressure in my chest demands language, but I refuse it.
Instead, I reach for the soap again, drag my hands slowly over his shoulders, memorizing the slope.
The strength. The small scar near his ribs.
The light trail of hair below his navel.
The angle of his hips. I’ll carry all of this with me for as long as I can. As long as I need.
Until he comes back to me.
“They’ll try to fold you. Keep your core tight. Don’t give them a target to hit. Soft tissue damage is…an exhausting kind of pain.”
“You’re going to debrief me when I get back, aren’t you?” he asks, after a sound that might be a chuckle.
I don’t answer that. I can’t. I’m stuck on that single word.
When.
Asher washes my hair, and I let the water hit my face so he can’t see my tears. I think he knows I’m crying, but says nothing. Just holds me closer.
We don’t talk as we dry off, brush our teeth, and get dressed.
He chooses his clothes with care. Dark slacks—nothing tight or restrictive—a light gray t-shirt. Old boots.
His jacket stays in the closet. His watch on the dresser. His challenge coin in my pocket.
By the time I’ve towel-dried my hair, he’s already cooking. Eggs and toast, coffee, full water glasses sitting on the table alongside a new burner phone.
“I cloned my number,” he says as the eggs sizzle in the pan.
“Northbridge will call me, not you. I’ll destroy my phone before I let them take me.
The passcode is in your notebook, along with information about my storage unit.
There’s a safe in the closet. It uses the same code as the phone.
If you have to run, everything you need is in there. ”
“You should change the combination,” I murmur.
His lips curve slightly. “You’ll take care of that.”
We sit at the table like this is any other morning. I don’t taste the food, but I eat because he needs me to. I’ll eat every meal he so carefully labeled last night. Because if I don’t, I’ll make a mistake, and he’ll pay the price.
“I don’t know when I’ll get another meal.” His words are so soft, I almost miss them. But they lodge themselves deep in my heart.
With every minute that ticks closer to nine a.m., it’s harder and harder to hold myself together.
Asher sweeps his gaze around the apartment, lingering on the couch for a beat, then the door to the bedroom, then me. One last chance to commit things to memory.
There are a thousand things I should say.
Don’t be brave. Be strategic.
Don’t give them anything.
Come back to me.
I love you.
I don’t say any of them. I steady my hands and run them over his chest, down his arms, until I can link our fingers.
“Eat,” he says again.
“I will.”
He studies my face, and this time, I don’t look away. I let him see everything. Fear. Uncertainty. Determination.
“I’m choosing you.” The declaration is simple. Everything and nothing at the same time. “I will always choose you.”
His breath catches almost imperceptibly.
I press closer and breathe him in one last time. Soap. A hint of cologne. Woodsy and fresh and familiar. I want to hold onto this moment forever. But after a few seconds, I let go. I have to.
At the door, he turns, his gaze finding mine. “I’m choosing you, too,” he whispers.
And then he’s gone.
The lock clicks shut, and the sound is so small it shouldn’t matter. But it does.