50. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
Sleep should have come almost an hour ago.
Instead, I've walked the apartment enough times that I could probably calculate the exact distance without looking at my watch.
The hardwood beneath my feet has become familiar in a way it wasn't even this morning, each board announcing itself in tiny, predictable ways that reassure me nothing has changed since the last lap.
The front door is still locked. The deadbolt is still engaged.
Every window remains secured. The camera feeds show exactly what they've shown for the last forty-seven minutes.
The elevator stopped on this floor twice after that, neither person lingering outside my apartment long enough to warrant attention.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
So why do I keep checking?
I stop outside the master bedroom again.
The hallway light casts a thin line beneath the door where Maeve went almost two hours ago, and I find myself listening despite already knowing there's nothing to hear.
She's either asleep or reading on the Kindle Bullet dropped off earlier.
Either option is acceptable. Both mean she's comfortable enough to stop scanning every room she enters.
That should be enough for me.
It isn't.
I force myself to continue down the hall and back into the guest room, closing the door behind me before sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress still feels temporary even after eight months. Functional. Efficient. Nothing about it invites you to stay longer than necessary.
My phone sits on the nightstand. Without thinking, I pick it up.
Matt.
No.
He'd know something was wrong before I finished the first sentence, and then Rachel would know, and by breakfast tomorrow the entire team would somehow be discussing my emotional state over coffee.
Bullet.
Absolutely not. He'd smirk for thirty seconds before saying something infuriatingly accurate.
Wheels would laugh.
I set the phone back down.
I've managed to eliminate every available option without solving the problem that made me reach for it.
Which probably tells me more than any conversation would have.
I lie back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling, folding my hands across my stomach the way I always do when I'm trying to organize my thoughts.
The problem isn't security. I've checked the apartment enough times to know that.
The problem isn't Maeve. She's asleep down the hall, finally somewhere no one can tell her what to wear, where to sit, or who she's allowed to speak to.
So why does every instinct I have keep pulling me toward that hallway?
For one completely irrational second, I consider grabbing my blanket and sleeping outside her bedroom door.
The thought lingers longer than it should.
From there I'd hear anyone approaching the apartment before they reached her door. I'd hear the elevator stop. The stairwell door opening. Mrs. Henderson's dog shaking its collar every night around eleven. Every variable would be closer. Every response time shorter.
It would also be insane.
Maeve has spent months trying to convince herself that being watched wasn't normal. The last thing she needs is to wake up tomorrow morning and find me camped outside her bedroom like some overprotective guard dog who doesn't know when his shift ends.
I rub a hand over my face.
Something is wrong with me.
Not wrong in the clinical sense.
Wrong because this afternoon I caught myself watching her laugh instead of listening to what she was laughing about.
Because I ordered enough food for six people without realizing there were only two of us.
Because after one passing comment about missing her book, I somehow decided buying her a Kindle belonged on the same priority level as replacing the batteries in a smoke detector.
None of those decisions had anything to do with the mission. None of them increased her safety. I did them because I wanted to.
The realization settles over me with uncomfortable certainty. I know where this road leads. Not because I've loved someone before.
Because I've wanted to.
Those aren't the same thing.
Cindy and I cared about each other. We enjoyed being together. We shared routines. Somewhere along the way, I think we both assumed those things would eventually become love.
Instead, they became comfortable. Comfortable wasn't enough for either of us. I don't resent her for realizing it first. What happened after that wasn't the failure. It was the result. The failure had already happened long before either of us knew it.
I exhale slowly and stare at the ceiling.
The problem is that I haven't stopped thinking about Maeve since we left her parents' house.
Not once. I keep replaying the way she smiled when Bullet handed her the Kindle. The way she curled beneath the blanket on the couch without asking permission. The way she looked around this apartment as if she was trying to convince herself she was allowed to relax.
None of those thoughts accomplish anything. They don't improve security. They don't solve a problem.
They simply...stay. And that's unfamiliar. Because this doesn't feel comfortable. It feels dangerous. Not because of what she might do.
Because of what I'm starting to want.
I want her to laugh again tomorrow. I want her to keep wandering into the kitchen barefoot when she can't sleep. I want this apartment to become somewhere she thinks of as home instead of somewhere she's hiding.
Those thoughts arrive one after another, so naturally I don't even realize where they're leading until I reach the end of them.
I want her to stay. The admission settles quietly inside my chest. Not for the mission. Not until Ronan is found.
Just...stay.
I close my eyes. That's where people like me make mistakes. Because wanting someone to stay and someone actually staying are two very different things. I've spent enough time watching the people I care about to know what love looks like.
The apartment settles around me as the air conditioner hums to life, filling the silence just enough that I almost miss the sound from the hallway.
A floorboard. Then another.
My hand closes instinctively around the pistol resting on the nightstand, but I don't lift it. Listen first.
The footsteps are light. Bare feet. Not hurried.
Maeve.
I let my hand relax, waiting to hear the kitchen cabinet open or the refrigerator door. Instead...The footsteps stop outside my room.
My heartbeat does something strange. The handle turns slowly. The door opens only a few inches.
"Taibhse..." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Are you awake?"
Something warm unfolds in my chest before I can stop it. My name has never sounded the way it does when she says it.
Not Keaton. Not Vance. Not Skee. Taibhse. Ghost.
She knows my real name now. She could use it whenever she wants.
Instead, when it's just the two of us, she still chooses the name she gave me before she knew anything about me.
Somehow...that matters more than it should. I close my eyes for half a second.
This is becoming a problem.
Not because I don't know what this feeling is. I do. That's exactly what worries me.
I push myself up against the headboard before answering. "Yes."
The room is dark except for the thin strip of light spilling in from the hallway behind her. I can only make out the outline of her shoulders and the loose t-shirt she'd borrowed from me earlier, but it's enough to recognize the way she's standing.
Carefully. Like she's worried she's already asking too much.
"Are you okay?"
She nods once before remembering I probably can't see it. "I'm okay." A pause. "I just..." Her fingers tighten around the edge of the door. "Can I stay in here with you?"
The question reaches me a fraction of a second after my body has already answered it.
By the time my brain catches up, I've shifted toward the wall, making room beside me without thinking.
"Of course." The words leave quietly. Then the practical part of my brain finally catches up. "If you're uncomfortable being alone, I'll stay in the master bedroom." She looks confused. "I can sleep on the floor."
"It's unnecessary, but if knowing someone's nearby helps you rest, I understand." I glance toward the hallway. "The apartment is secure."
Every door is locked. Every camera is operational. No movement outside. No unexplained vehicles. No anomalies. "I don't think anyone can reach you here."
She watches me for a long moment before giving the smallest shake of her head. "That's not why."
"No?"
She walks the rest of the way into the room. "I don't want you on the floor."
Before I can respond, she slips beneath the blanket beside me. The bed is suddenly much smaller than it's ever been.
Not uncomfortable. Just...occupied.
She settles onto her side, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her even before she gently rests her head against my chest.
Every thought I'd been having five minutes ago disappears. My body makes another decision before I do. My hand lifts on its own. My fingers disappear into her hair.
Soft. Softer than I expected. The strands slide between my fingers like water, and before I realize what I'm doing, I'm slowly combing them back from her face.
She sighs. Not dramatically. Just enough that I feel the sound more than hear it.
Something in my chest loosens. I haven't fixed anything. Ronan is still out there. Tomorrow will probably bring another conversation neither of us wants to have.
And yet, inexplicably, this feels right.
"Okay," I murmur.
She tilts her head slightly.
"We can move into the master bedroom." I glance around the cramped guest room. "The bed is larger. There would be more space. It would probably be more comfortable."
She smiles against my shirt. "I don't want the bigger bed."
I frown. "No?"
She shakes her head. "I'd rather stay in here."
My fingers still. "This room isn't intended for two people."
"I know."
"You'll sleep better in the other room."
She looks up at me then, her eyes finding mine even in the darkness. "I don't want you sleeping in a room that stopped functioning."
The words steal every coherent thought I have. She remembered. Not just what I'd said. The way I'd said it. She hadn't laughed. She hadn't corrected me. She hadn't tried to convince me it was a strange way to describe grief.
She'd simply...understood.
My throat feels unexpectedly tight. "I don't mind the main room."
"I know." She smiles softly. "But this is where you're comfortable."
No.
I realize with quiet certainty as I continue running my fingers through her hair. This...is where I'm comfortable.