Chapter 17
SARAH
The clock reads just before four when my vision blurs enough that I have to stop typing.
I've worked days of marathon shifts, fueled by coffee and adrenaline and the knowledge that Reeve's search grid contracts with every passing hour.
My hands tremble as I set down the tablet, exhaustion settling into my bones like lead.
Across the operations center, Micah studies the updated network architecture on the main display. He hasn't slept more than a few hours since we started this push. Dark circles shadow his eyes, stubble roughens his jaw, but his focus stays laser-sharp on the protocols we've built.
Tommy left an hour ago, finally convinced we had the technical framework solid enough to implement. The overnight security feeds hum in the background, the only sound in the empty facility besides the soft clicks of Micah's keyboard.
We've rebuilt Echo Ridge's entire external communications network. We've compartmentalized every contact, layered encryption protocols Tommy designed specifically to defeat the Committee's SIGINT capabilities, restructured information flow so no single compromise can expose the whole system.
It's good work. Maybe the best either of us has ever done.
And I'm so tired I can barely remember my own name.
"That's the last protocol set implemented," Micah says, his voice graveled by fatigue. "I've cross-checked against Committee intercept methodologies. They won't be able to crack this without months of dedicated effort and resources they can't afford to expose."
"The verification run completed clean." I pull up the final test results on my screen. "No vulnerabilities in the contact isolation architecture. Each node operates independently with no lateral communication that could create compromise chains."
He turns from the display, and something in his expression makes my breath catch. Maybe relief. Or satisfaction at work well done. But underneath, I recognize the same bone-deep exhaustion dragging at my own thoughts.
"We did it," he says quietly.
"Yeah, we did." The words come out flatter than intended. Exhaustion strips away the ability to feel triumph. "The Committee loses their intelligence gathering capability. Reeve's operating blind now."
"Which buys us time for Kane's team to eliminate him before he locates Echo Base."
I nod, but the motion feels disconnected from conscious thought. My brain keeps trying to shut down, to force rest my body desperately needs but my mind won't allow. Too many variables still in play. Too many ways this could still go wrong.
Micah crosses to my workstation, studies my face with an intensity that cuts through the fog. "When did you last eat?"
"Willa brought sandwiches." I try to remember when. "Earlier."
"That was hours ago."
Time blurred somewhere around the second day, bleeding together into one continuous stretch of analysis and implementation and verification.
"I'm fine."
"You're trembling." He reaches out, steadies my uncooperative hands with his own. The touch pulls me back from the edge of collapse I've been ignoring. "Come on. We're done here. You need food and sleep."
"Reeve—"
"Is still days away from visual range even if he maintains his current search pace. Kane confirmed it while you were running the final verification protocols." His grip tightens slightly. "We've done everything we can. The rest is up to the operational team."
The rational part of my brain knows he's right. The part that's been running on fumes and fear argues we should keep working, keep checking, keep finding ways to make the network more secure.
But my hands won't steady and my vision keeps blurring and somewhere in the past few days I lost the ability to think clearly through the exhaustion.
Micah pulls me to my feet, catches me when I sway slightly. "Food first. Then sleep."
"I can't." The admission costs more than it should. "Every time I try to sleep I see the search grid tightening. I see Reeve finding Echo Base. I see everyone here dying because I missed something in the protocols."
"You didn't miss anything." His voice carries absolute certainty.
"Tommy and I have been checking your work the same way you and Tommy checked mine, and you and I checked his.
Everything's been triple-verified, Sarah.
If there was a vulnerability, one of us would have caught it.
" He pauses. "You were the best NSA ever had.
Your analysis division still hasn't recovered from losing you. "
The compliment should feel good. Instead, it just amplifies the exhaustion. It reminds me how close I am to breaking completely.
He guides me out of the operations center, through corridors lit only by emergency lighting at this hour. The facility sleeps around us, the team resting before the operation against Reeve launches. We should be resting too. We should be conserving strength for whatever comes next.
But my quarters feel too empty. Too quiet. Too full of thoughts I've been avoiding by drowning them in work.
Micah must sense something because he doesn't leave me at my door. He follows me inside, moves to the bathroom and returns with a glass of water, then finds the protein bars Willa stocked in my desk drawer for the long shifts.
"Sit," he says, pointing to the bed.
I sit because standing takes more energy than I have left. I watch him move through my space with the efficiency of someone who's operated on exhaustion before.
The domesticity of it cracks something open. This man who spent years deep cover in Committee networks, who killed without hesitation to protect this team, is getting me water and food before dawn because he's worried about me.
He hands me the glass, sits beside me on the bed. "Drink."
I drink because arguing takes effort I don't have. The water is cold and clean but it grounds me in physical sensation, pulls me back from the spiral of fear and exhaustion.
"Better?" he asks after I've taken a few sips.
"No." The honesty escapes before I can stop it. "I'm scared, Micah. Scared we missed something. Scared Reeve will find us anyway. Scared that one of these missions will take you from me."
The words hang between us, raw and unguarded—everything I've been burying under protocol implementations and security assessments.
His expression shifts to understanding mixed with pain I recognize because I carry the same wound.
"I'm telling you..." he says quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."
"You can't promise that." My fingers tighten around the glass until my knuckles ache.
"You went dark for two years. I thought you were dead.
I thought I'd lost you the same way I almost lost Gabe.
And when you came back, all that grief turned into anger because anger was easier than admitting how terrified I was of losing you again. "
"Sarah—"
"I can't do this." The water sloshes as my hands lose their grip. "I can't let myself need you again just to have you disappear. I can't survive that twice."
He takes the glass from my shaking fingers, sets it on the nightstand. Then he pulls me against him, arms wrapping around me with a steadiness that shatters the last of my control.
I cry. Not the angry tears from the analysis room when we tore at each other with need and rage. These are the tears I've been holding back. Grief and fear and exhaustion pouring out against his chest while he holds me and doesn't try to fix it with words.
"I'm here," he says finally, his voice raw. "Right here. Not going anywhere unless you physically throw me out, remember?"
"That's not fair." The words come out muffled against his shirt. "Using my own threats against me."
"Nothing about us is fair." His hand moves in slow circles on my back. "But I'm still here. Still choosing you. And I know you're choosing me back—you're just terrified to admit it."
I pull back enough to see his face, the exhaustion written in every line, the certainty in his eyes despite the fear I know he carries about abandonment and loss.
"I'm terrified," I admit.
"So am I." He brushes tears from my cheek with his thumb. "Terrified you'll decide I'm not worth the risk. Terrified I'll fuck this up again somehow. Terrified that what we're building can't survive the missions and the danger and all the ways this life tries to break people."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Because terrified doesn't mean I stop trying." His thumb traces my jaw. "Because you're worth being scared for. Because the alternative—walking away, keeping safe distance, pretending we don't feel this—that's worse than any mission the Committee could throw at me."
The honesty in his voice opens something raw inside me. I become aware of how close we're sitting. How his hand cups my face with a tenderness that contrasts everything about the rough desperation in the analysis room.
"Micah." His name comes out broken.
He kisses me. Not the demanding possession from before. This kiss is gentle, questioning, giving me space to pull away if I need to.
I don't pull away.
I lean into him, let the kiss deepen, taste salt from my own tears on his lips. My hands find his shoulders, grip the fabric of his shirt like an anchor against the storm of emotion threatening to pull me under.
He shifts us carefully, lays me back against the pillows with a reverence that brings fresh tears. His weight presses down, solid and real and here in ways I stopped letting myself believe were possible.
"Tell me what you need," he says against my mouth.
"You." The admission costs everything. "Just you. Here. Real."
His kiss trails from my mouth to my jaw, following the tear-tracks down my cheek. "I'm real. I'm here. I'm yours if you'll have me."
The words unlock raw hunger inside me. I reach for him with unsteady hands, pull him closer even though he's already pressed against me. I need more. I need proof that this isn't another dream I'll wake from alone and grieving.