Chapter 8 #3
So yeah, this was a good night. Maybe he’d just calm down and take a full breath and try and enjoy this.
Frankly, it wasn’t a hard leap.
This should be tedious. Something you endured for cover. Smiled through. Got through and moved on.
But walking into the community center earlier with Daphne beside him—her hand resting lightly on his arm, dress swirling around her legs, hair down, soft around her face—Asher realized something unexpected.
He was looking forward to this.
Not because the operation required it.
Because he wanted to dance with Daphne. Wanted to see her smile. Wanted to spend an evening pretending they were just a normal couple.
When had that happened? When had the cover story stopped being performance?
He’d learned more about Daphne Cross in three weeks than he’d learned about most people in years.
She yelled at the television during The Terminal List. Not just at James Reece, the protagonist, either—who she said broke too many rules—but at the corrupt officials who’d forced him into vigilante justice.
“Just do your jobs!” she’d shout at senators and administrators on screen.
Her face would get flushed. Her hands would gesture. She’d be completely absorbed.
The first time it happened, Asher had stared. The second time, he’d smiled. By the third episode, he’d started adding his own commentary, and she’d laughed and agreed.
She also knew every Jeopardy! answer. Every single one. Before the contestants even buzzed in. She’d murmur them quietly, almost to herself, even before Destiny shouted them out. (And usually out of Destiny’s earshot.) History, science, literature, pop culture—didn’t matter. She knew.
“How do you know all this?” he’d asked one night after she’d correctly answered an obscure question about Byzantine architecture.
She’d shrugged. “I read a lot as a kid. Felt like a safe place after Dad died.”
She played Scrabble with Destiny every night after dinner. Patient. Never letting Destiny win but never making her feel stupid. Teaching her strategy. Laughing when Destiny tried to pass off fake words as real.
“Nice try, but ‘zyx’ isn’t a word, no matter how much you insist,” Daphne had said last night.
“It could be a word. Maybe it’s Latin,” Destiny had argued.
“It’s not Latin. It’s you trying to use your Z tile for fifty points.”
They’d both laughed.
Watching them, Asher had realized Daphne was good at this. At making people comfortable. At creating normalcy in abnormal situations. At being kind without being patronizing.
She made his coffee exactly right. Every morning. Without asking.
The first time, he’d thought it was coincidence. The second time, observation. By the end of the first week, he’d realized she’d memorized his preferences.
“You don’t have to do that,” he’d said one morning.
“Do what?”
“Make my coffee.”
“You stay up. I nap through the morning shift. It’s the least I can do.”
Huh.
She hummed while she cooked breakfast. Off-key. Unconscious. He still had to figure out what song it was. And he would.
She was funny. Dry wit that caught him off guard. Deadpan delivery.
Yesterday morning, Roger had complained about the lack of bacon.
“We’re out,” Daphne had said.
“Then get more.”
“Okay. I’ll just leave the safe house, expose our location, risk everyone’s safety, and run to the grocery store because you want bacon.” Pause. “Or you could eat the eggs and toast and be grateful you’re alive.”
Roger had eaten the eggs.
Asher had hidden a smile.
But she was kind. Small gestures. Covering Roger with a blanket when he fell asleep on the couch. Making Destiny’s favorite tea without being asked. Checking on Mark Sullivan’s recovery every time they saw Renee.
“How’s he doing?” Daphne had asked yesterday.
“Better. Still has nightmares about the explosion. But better.” Renee had smiled. “Your husband saved his life, you know.”
Daphne had just nodded. Deflected. Changed the subject.
She was competent. At everything. Cooking, security, tactical assessment, reading people. Never flustered. Never panicked. Just steady competence that made their partnership feel effortless.
This morning, the coffee maker had broken. Just died mid-brew.
Daphne had assessed the situation for thirty seconds. Then grabbed her phone. Twenty minutes later, Ruthie had appeared with a spare coffee maker and two cups of fresh coffee.
“Crisis averted,” Daphne had said, handing him a cup. Still perfectly made.
“How did you—”
“Ruthie mentioned she had an extra one last week. I remembered.” She’d shrugged. “Problem solving.”
So tonight, walking into the community center, watching her in that green dress talking to Ruthie—Asher had realized something terrifying.
He’d stopped noticing these things for operational reasons.
He noticed them because he liked her. Really liked her.
Coming downstairs every morning after his shower had become his favorite part of the day. Not because of the operation.
Because Daphne would be there. Making coffee. Humming off-key. Ready to coordinate breakfast with practiced ease. Ready to make him laugh with some dry observation.
“Asher! Daphne!” Renee waved from across the room. “Come get some cider! It’s Mark’s family recipe.”
Daphne glanced at him.
He shot a look at Destiny, then Roger, and nodded.
They moved through the crowd together, her hand still resting on his arm. Light touch. Comfortable.
People stopped them. Said hello. Complimented Daphne’s dress. Asked how they were settling in.
“Your mom seems happy here,” Craig said, gesturing to where Destiny was laughing with Ellen. “Good to see them out.”
“They needed this,” Daphne said smoothly. “Fresh air. Socialization.”
“And good for you two. Date night.”
Date night. Right.
The band shifted to something slower. A country ballad. Couples moved onto the dance floor. Swaying. Close.
Destiny appeared suddenly. Burgundy dress swirling. Face flushed with excitement. “They’re playing my song! Come on, we have to dance!”
She grabbed Daphne’s hand. Pulled her toward the dance floor. Daphne looked back at Asher, something of panic on her face. “Hey! Partners!”
The word zinged him, and he found himself on his feet, following.
The dance floor was crowded. Bodies moving together. Ellen and Craig. Mark and Renee—Mark moving carefully, still recovering. Dean and Julie. Older couples who’d been married fifty years.
Destiny pulled them into the middle. Started swaying to the music. Elegant. Graceful.
Daphne stood there. Uncertain.
“I don’t really dance,” she said.
“Everyone dances,” Destiny insisted. “Just follow the rhythm.”
Asher moved closer. Held out his hand. “May I?”
Daphne looked at his hand. At his face. Something flickered in her expression.
She took his hand.
And Asher pulled her close.
His right hand on her waist. Her left hand on his shoulder. Their other hands clasped between them. Standard dance position.
Except there was nothing standard about the way his heart started pounding.
“I really don’t dance,” Daphne said quietly. She was close enough he could smell her shampoo—something clean and floral. Close enough he could see the freckles across her nose.
“Just follow my lead.”
“I’m not good at following.”
He smiled. “I’ve noticed.”
They started moving. Slow. Simple. Just swaying to the music.
And Daphne, for a nondancer, could certainly dance.
She moved with him like she’d been born to do this. Following his lead but anticipating his movements. Reading his body language.
Just like they did everything else.
“You lied,” Asher said.
“About what?”
“Not dancing. You’re good at this.”
“Fine. My dad taught me. Before he died. He said every girl should know how to dance.” Her voice went soft. “We’d practice in the living room. Mom would play records. Old country songs. Frank Sinatra. Dad would spin me around until I got dizzy, and Mom would laugh and tell him to be careful.”
Her eyes were distant. Lost in memory.
“That’s a good memory,” Asher said quietly.
“Yeah. It is.” She focused on him again. “He’d be happy I remembered.”
They swayed together, the music washing over them. Other couples around them—Destiny had been rescued by Wayne.
But Asher barely noticed. Just Daphne. Just the way she fit in his arms. Just the way she moved with him without thinking.
The song shifted. Something slightly faster. Still slow enough for dancing but with more energy.
Asher spun her. Gentle. Testing.
Daphne followed perfectly. Came back to him with a small laugh. Surprised. “Okay. Showing off now.”
“Just getting started.”
He spun her again. She laughed. Genuine. Bright.
They moved across the dance floor. Nothing fancy. Nothing that would draw too much attention. Just simple spins and turns that felt natural.
The song ended. Transitioned into something upbeat. Line dance music. The floor shifted. Couples broke apart. Dancers formed lines. Destiny grabbed Daphne’s hand again. “Come on! This one’s fun!”
Daphne looked at Asher. He held up his hands. “I’m out.”
Daphne’s eyes widened, but she joined the line forming.
He watched her follow Destiny’s lead. Watched her laugh when she messed up the steps. Watched her get it right on the second try.
And standing there, watching Daphne Cross line dance with retirement community residents while paper leaves hung overhead and November chill drifted through open doors, Asher Morrison realized he was in serious trouble.
An hour later, they stood near the refreshment table. Daphne sipped cider. Asher tried the apple pie someone had brought—homemade, probably Ruthie’s.
Roger appeared beside them. Still scowling but less intensely. “Can we go yet?”
“We just got here,” Daphne said.
“We’ve been here for an hour.”
“That’s not long enough.”
“It’s long enough for me. This is boring.”
“You’re talking to Dean about basketball.”
“Dean’s talking. I’m listening. There’s a difference.” Roger grabbed a cookie from the table. Chocolate chip. “How much longer?”
“Another hour at least,” Asher said. “We need to be seen. Need to look normal.”
“Normal is overrated.”
“Normal keeps you alive.”