Chapter 8
DYLAN
Dawn light filters through the curtains when I wake. Reagan sleeps against my chest, one leg still draped over my hip, her breathing deep and even. The photograph on the nightstand catches the early sun—Lisa and Maya frozen in a moment thirteen years gone.
I should move. Extract myself from this position and return to operational status. Treat last night like the mistake it probably was.
Instead, I stay still. Watch the way Reagan's hair spreads across my shoulder. Feel the warmth of her skin against mine. Count the breaths that prove she's alive and here and choosing to be in my bed despite knowing exactly what kind of man I am.
The contradiction weighs heavy. I spent thirteen years after Lisa and Maya died building walls between myself and attachment.
Walls that kept me functional. Kept me focused on the mission instead of the grief.
Walls that let me protect people without risking the kind of loss that breaks you completely.
Last night, Reagan walked through those walls like they were paper.
Her eyes open. Find mine already watching her. A small smile crosses her face—genuine, unguarded. The kind of expression that makes my throat tighten.
"Morning," she says.
"Morning."
She shifts slightly, stretches without moving away. The sheets slide down, revealing skin marked with faint red lines where my fingers gripped too hard. Evidence of what we did. What I let happen.
What I wanted to happen.
"You're thinking too loud," Reagan observes. "I can hear the calculations from here."
"Just planning the day."
"Liar." She props herself up on one elbow, studies my face with the same intensity she brings to investigating Webb's network. "You're already compartmentalizing. Putting last night in a box labeled 'mistake' or 'complication' so you can go back to treating me like an asset you need to protect."
My jaw tightens. "It's more complicated than that."
"It's not." Reagan sits up fully. The sheet pools around her waist. "You're scared. I get it. But don't insult either of us by pretending last night didn't mean anything."
"I didn't say it didn't mean anything."
"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face." She reaches for her shirt from the floor. "We should get dressed. Kane probably wants a morning briefing."
She's giving me an exit. A way to retreat into professional distance without addressing what happened between us. The smart play—accept the out, return to established protocols, keep emotional complications contained.
But watching her pull on clothing like armor makes tension crawl up my spine.
"Reagan—"
"It's fine." She finds her pants, steps into them with mechanical efficiency. "Last night was what it was. We don't have to make it complicated."
"Stop."
She pauses, looks at me over her shoulder.
"Last night meant something." The words come out rougher than intended.
"It meant something and that terrifies me because everyone I let matter ends up dead.
Lisa. Maya. Operators I commanded who trusted me to keep them alive.
You want to know why I build walls? That's why.
Not because I don't care. Because I care too much and people die anyway. "
Reagan crosses back to the bed. Sits on the edge facing me. "So your solution is to never let anyone close? To treat everyone like chess pieces you can move around a board? That's not protection, Dylan. That's just slow death by isolation."
"It keeps people alive."
"It keeps you alone." Her hand finds mine on the sheets.
"I'm not Lisa. I'm not Maya. I'm not some civilian who needs you to make all the decisions.
I walked into this situation with my eyes open.
I chose to sleep with you knowing exactly who you are and what you've done.
Don't dishonor that choice by treating me like I don't understand the risks. "
The logic is sound. The emotion behind it even more so. But years of training don't just evaporate because someone makes a good argument.
"I don't know how to do this," I admit. "How to care about someone without trying to control every variable that might hurt them."
"You learn. We both learn." Reagan squeezes my hand. "But you have to decide first. Am I your partner or your responsibility? I can't be both."
The question hangs in the air between us. Outside the room, the safe house is waking up—footsteps in the hall, the distant sound of coffee brewing, Stryker's voice calling something to Kane. Normal morning sounds of a facility preparing for another day of operations.
Inside this room, everything balances on my answer.
I've made countless decisions under pressure. Chosen who lives and who gets sacrificed for mission objectives. Weighed operational security against human lives and pulled the trigger when the math demanded it.
This should be simple by comparison.
It's not.
Because choosing Reagan means accepting that I might lose her.
Means acknowledging that no amount of planning or protective protocols can guarantee she survives what's coming.
Means living with the terror that wakes me at three in the morning remembering watching the bombing that killed my wife and daughter.
But refusing to choose her means exactly what she said—slow death by isolation. Means treating her like every other asset I've managed and lost. Means dishonoring the trust she showed me last night when she let me touch her despite knowing what these hands have done.
"Partner," I say finally.
Reagan's smile is immediate and genuine. "Good answer."
She leans in, kisses me softly. Different from last night's desperate intensity. This is morning light and conscious choice and the beginning of something that terrifies me more than any Committee operation.
When she pulls back, her expression turns serious. "But if you try to lock me down again without consulting me first, I will make your life hell. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good." She stands, finishes dressing. "Now get up. We need coffee and I need to figure out how to help Delaney build this case without external access."
I watch her head toward the door, then call after her. "Reagan?"
She pauses, looks back.
"Thank you. For not letting me retreat."
"That's what partners do. We don't let each other hide." She opens the door. "Now hurry up before Stryker drinks all the good coffee."
The kitchen smells like burned toast and too-strong coffee when I arrive fifteen minutes later. Stryker leans against the counter with a mug, eyebrows raising slightly when he sees me enter after Reagan.
"Morning," he says. Too casual. Too knowing.
"Morning."
Kane sits at the table with displays spread across the surface. He glances up, takes in my appearance and Reagan's, and his expression shifts. Not disapproval exactly. More like reassessment.
"We need to discuss operational security," Kane says.
"Agreed." I pour coffee, notice Reagan's already claimed a mug and settled at the table with Khalid. The kid watches me with those old eyes, then gives a nod. Approval from a fifteen-year-old Syrian survivor shouldn't matter.
It does.
Stryker moves closer, voice dropping. "So. You and the journalist."
"Yes."
"About damn time." He grins. "Tension's been thick enough to cut since she got here. Thought I'd have to lock you in a room together."
"Unnecessary."
"Clearly." Stryker sips his coffee. "Just don't let it compromise operations. Kane's already running calculations on whether this becomes a liability."
"It won't."
"Good." He claps my shoulder. "Because she's good for you. Haven't seen you this human since before Syria."
He moves back to the counter before I can respond. Leaves me standing with coffee and the weight of that observation.
Human. Like spending years as an interrogator stripped away something essential. Like operational efficiency required sacrificing the parts of myself that connected to other people.
Maybe it did.
Reagan catches my eye across the kitchen. Smiles slightly. The tightness in my throat eases just enough to breathe.
Kane clears his throat. "Now that everyone's caffeinated, we need to address the situation. Tommy sent updated analysis overnight. The Committee's cyber division is actively probing multiple locations."
"What kind of probing?" I move to the table. Reagan shifts to make room.
"Systematic search patterns." Kane pulls up a map showing digital traffic patterns. "They're checking Reagan's known travel history. Every city she visited, every hotel she stayed in, every location tied to her investigation. They're building a geographic profile."
"Looking for places I might find safe to hide," Reagan says quietly.
"Exactly. They know we'd need to secure you somewhere off their radar. They're checking locations within your established movement patterns." Kane highlights three areas on the map. "Montana. Wyoming. Northern Colorado. All places you traveled during your investigation."
"How long until they narrow it down?" I ask.
"Tommy estimates we have days at most. Maybe less if they bring more resources online." Kane closes the display. "This location stays secure for now. But we need contingency plans. Multiple options if we have to move fast."
Reagan's hand finds mine under the table. Squeezes once. I squeeze back, drawing strange comfort from the contact even as assessments flood my mind.
"What about Echo Base?" Stryker asks. "They haven't found that yet."
"Echo Base stays dark," Kane says firmly. "No movement in or out unless absolutely critical. Reagan doesn't know the location and we're keeping it that way."
"For operational security," I add when Reagan tenses beside me. "Not because we don't trust you. If the Committee captures you, they'll extract that information. Better you don't have it."
She nods slowly. Understanding the logic even if she doesn't like it.
Khalid speaks up from his corner. "What about the others? The people on Reagan's source list?"