11. The Line Between
ELEVEN
THE LINE BETWEEN
CRUSHER
Crusher
I wanted Nevaeh to have clothes and shit while she’s with me, but I never thought this would happen again.
Nevaeh’s apartment looks like it held a fight between desperation and rage. Drawers overturned. Couch slashed. Her framed awards shattered like they insulted somebody. It’s the type of chaos that isn’t just looking for something.
It’s meant to send a message.
I step through broken glass, my fists already clenched.
“Stay here.” I stalk past her, clearing rooms. I check the closet, bathroom, and kitchen, but it’s empty. Someone was here, and they weren’t here for cash or electronics. They were here for her.
She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her vibrating with fury. Or fear. Or both.
“They didn’t take anything,” she says eventually, her voice low and brittle. “They just... destroyed things.”
“No,” I growl. “They took something all right, your fucking safety.”
I return to the living room, every nerve in my body lit like a fuse. “Pack a bag.”
I wait for her to argue, because she always does, but this time, she just looks at the broken glass and destruction left behind, then quietly turns and walks to her room.
Ten minutes later, she’s back. She changed her clothes to a pair of jeans and a hoodie with a bag over her shoulder, not saying a word.
I wonder what she packed. Hopefully not much.
I can’t be trusted to look away if she sleeps like she did the other night.
A part of me hopes she didn’t pack pajamas at all.
Dangerous thought. One I shouldn’t be having, not now.
Nevaeh straightens her spine and looks me right in the eyes, drawing me out of my fantasy of her sleeping naked. She doesn’t argue when I lead her out. Doesn’t argue when I throw her bag on the back of my bike. She looks at me like she’s counting the steps between control and eruption.
She probably doesn't realize I already crossed that line.
My place is an old garage with a loft over it.
Bare bones, mostly metal, smells like oil and smoke, and has a haunted past. A dusty toolbox I haven’t opened since Steel's father, the General, died. The SOMC flag hangs crooked on the wall in the living room. A cracked photo frame is flipped face down on a shelf. I haven’t had anyone in here in years, and I sure as hell didn’t expect Nevaeh to be the first.
She steps inside and scans the space. Her nose wrinkles. “You live like a man who doesn’t plan on being found.”
“That’s the idea.” I toss her bag on the couch. “You get the bed.”
Nevaeh arches a brow. “Do you always give up your bed for women you fight with?”
“No, just the ones someone’s trying to kill.” Nevaeh flinches. It’s brief, but I see it. I hate that she has to be here, but I hate more what might have happened if they didn’t knock her out and she fought back.
We argue over dinner.
Because, of course, we do.
Nevaeh’s drying a dish like it personally offended her. Jaw tight, shoulders tense. I can already feel the storm brewing before she opens her mouth.
“I’m going back tomorrow,” Nevaeh says, all cool fire. “I’ve got a deadline.”
I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “The hell you are.”
She turns to face me, eyebrows up. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not setting foot in that apartment until we figure out how they got in, who they are, and whether they’re coming back with something louder than a crowbar.”
“Oh, so now I need your permission to live my life?”
“This isn’t about permission. It’s about not walking back into a goddamn trap.”
She tosses the dish towel onto the counter like she’s throwing a gauntlet. “I’m not some damsel, Crusher. I don’t need a savior.”
“And I’m not watching you bleed because you’ve got something to prove.”
She steps closer, hands on her hips. “I have a spine. That doesn’t make me reckless.”
“You wrote an article that painted a target on both our backs,” I snap. “This isn’t about bravery, Nevaeh. It’s about not dying for a damn byline.”
Her mouth tightens. “You think that article was just for my career? You think I did it for clicks?”
“I think you lit a match without checking for gas leaks. And now you want to waltz back into a place someone already broke into, like you’re untouchable.”
She laughs, short and humorless. “God, you are such a caveman.”
“And you’re acting like this is just another story, not a war.”
We’re toe-to-toe now. Breathing the same air. Her scent’s driving me insane, and her eyes, damn, her eyes are tearing through every wall I’ve got.
“You want to protect me, fine,” she bites out. “But don’t pretend it’s not also about control.”
I stare at her, fury and something else churning behind my ribs. “I’d burn the whole city down before I let them hurt you.”
That stops her just for a second. Her expression falters for just a breath, then hardens again. She shakes her head, steps back, and mutters, “You don’t get to decide how I live.”
“No,” I say, voice rough, “but I’ll damn well fight for how you survive.”
She turns away, pacing like she needs to bleed off all that tension, and I let her. Dinner’s forgotten. Words have done enough damage for one night.
Later, when the adrenaline’s drained and the world’s gone still, Nevaeh’s sitting cross-legged on my bed in a black T-shirt that hangs loose on her frame. My shirt. Her hair is damp from a shower. Her eyes follow me as I toss a blanket onto the floor and grab a spare pillow.
“You’re not sleeping down there,” she says.
I pause, hand on the chair. She doesn’t say it like a come-on. She says it like a dare. “It’s a king,” she adds. “I won’t bite.”
I don’t answer. Just take off my boots, kill the light, and climb into bed. I stay on my side. My body’s wound tight enough to crack steel.
Her breathing is soft, measured. Her presence hums through the dark like static before lightning. She’s not even touching me, and still, I feel branded. The scent of her, the heat of her. She’s a furnace behind me, and I’m trying not to melt.
“You still mad at me?” she whispers.
“I’m not mad.”
She shifts. I feel the bed dip, her body closer. “You’re something.”
I exhale through my nose. “I’m trying not to touch you.”
A pause. “Don’t,” she says quietly.
“Don’t touch you?”
“Don’t try not to.”
I freeze. Those four words land like a lit match to dry grass.
But I don’t move. Because if I do, it’s over. And I’m not putting her in that kind of danger. Not the kind that comes with my hands, my mouth, my warpath of a life.
“Goodnight, Nevaeh,” I say, voice low and uneven.
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Goodnight, Crusher.”
Neither of us sleeps. Not when the line between safety and danger lies right down the middle of the bed.