Chapter 8 Cade
CHAPTER EIGHT
CADE
She starts to speak—"Are we—" then stops. Her eyes linger on my bandaged hand, then drift to her own unmarked palm, which she turns over slowly, as if searching for something that should be there but isn't.
I say nothing, which is my specialty. Her nostrils flare. She wants to talk about it, but won’t. Instead, she picks up the crossword, studies the half-solved clues, and fills in three blanks with my pen, fast and sure.
"The answer is ‘anodyne,’" she murmurs without meeting my eyes. I let that sit. I don’t want to know what puzzle she thinks she’s solving.
I look at her, and I see the ghost of her panic attack, the trilateral mark on her cheek where she pressed her own fingers into the bone, the smudge of dried tears across the left side of her face.
But she’s steady now, and the steadiness puts me on edge.
There’s a pressure in the air, denser than before, as if the house itself is calculating our proximity.
"You’re not eating your bar," I say. I’m ashamed at how harsh it comes out. She bites it in half, chews, and swallows. She says, "How many protein bars do you eat a day?"
"Three. Strict intervals."
"You ever get sick of them?"
"No." She wants me to admit something. Anything. I stand fast.
"You slept last night," I say. "After. That’s good."
She picks at the wrapper, balls it up. Her voice is lower now. "Is that what you tell yourself? Is it good that I slept?"
There’s no safe answer. To avoid her gaze, I push the crossword grid-side toward her, drop the pen in place, then walk to the sink. I run the tap even though I don’t plan to use the water, just to keep occupied. I pour her another glass—really just stalling for time. I need the excuse to turn away.
We get through the next forty minutes without direct eye contact.
The online therapy session goes as scheduled.
I watch from twelve feet away, earpiece in but volume low, scanning feeds on the house but keeping her always in the corner of my eye.
She talks about stress, about the "escalation in rural hostilities," and some buzzwords the therapist feeds her. She doesn’t mention the night, or the panic, or the fact that I held her until she could breathe.
After, she flicks off the app and looks at me, flat and unblinking.
"You’re different this morning."
"I’m always different," I reply, hearing myself sound like an asshole. It’s better than sounding fragile. "I have updates."
She waits. I keep my voice factual, as neutral as the morning report.
"We’ve shifted the night guard rotation.
No more solo rounds. Two at a time, overlapping.
West perimeter now gets a drive-by from local PD.
No sign of intrusion last night, but I still want to keep all access points locked unless you need them open. "
I run through more details than she needs, spelling out every measure, every rule, until her eyes drop to the counter.
"You’re over-correcting," she notes.
"That’s my job."
She drags a finger along the grout line of the tile. Then, with calculated calm: "Is this how you do it? After someone melts down, you double the rules?"
"Yes." She studies me, then nods, half to herself. I hate the way her voice goes soft.
"Can I thank you?" I look at her.
"No."
"You’d rather I pretend it didn’t happen?"
"Yes." She tilts her head.
"Would it help if I said sorry?"
"Not your fault." All my fault.
She says nothing for a long time, just watches the blue light in the window crawl up the far wall. She’s done pretending she doesn’t care. "Do you ever hold people like that?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Or was that…"
I snap, "Stop."
She does. She closes her eyes, letting her hair fall forward, shielding her expression.
I want to tell her she’s brave, or reckless, or that she makes things hard in a way I can’t afford.
But instead, I reload the spreadsheet on my phone, jaw clenched so tightly it aches.
We don’t speak for the next hour. She disappears into her room.
During the silence, I check external camera feeds, cross-reference cell tower pings for anomalies, and call the local station to reconfirm their patrol schedule.
Everything appears routine—no threats visible from outside.
At 1:09 PM, I find her in the hallway, barefoot, wrapping a threadbare cardigan around her torso. Her steps are soft, but she doesn’t tiptoe. She’s walking like someone who owns the house, not hiding from anything. She faces me square, blocking the narrow passage by the mudroom.
"Are you hungry?" she asks.
"Not right now."
"Can I make you coffee?"
I hesitate, but say yes, because I’d rather have this than silence.
The kitchen is empty except for her. She moves with the drama of a ballet.
All action compressed into fifteen square feet.
She finds the canister. Scoops the grounds.
Sets the kettle with methodical grace. Pours, waits, pours again.
The colors in the room are sun-bleached, white, and gold.
Everything else has faded. She nudges a mug toward me.
Too hot. I let it cool. She sits across, cradling her own mug—no sugar, no milk, nothing to blunt the taste.
Her hands aren’t shaking anymore. She says, "You know you don’t have to stay in the same room, right? You can trust the security system."
I stare at her and say, "The system’s only as good as its operator."
She grins, sharp and sudden. "I think you’re afraid of me.”
"Not afraid."
She leans forward, elbows on the table, a posture I have never seen her assume. She’s in my face, as close as the countertop allows. "What then?"
"That’s not relevant."
"It feels relevant to me." She pushes the mug aside, and her fingers drum a nervous line along the ceramic. "Are you always like this? Cold?"
I want to answer. But everything I’d say sounds like a confession.
I look at her mouth. I think of last night—not the panic, but what came after.
Her lips parted as she tried to find air.
I know exactly how she’d taste: sweat, salt, adrenaline, and sleep.
Human. She keeps her eyes on mine. Steady.
When she speaks, it's a challenge thrown across the table. “I think you didn’t hate it.”
"Delilah—"
“You made me feel safe.” Delilah stands, rounds the table, and stops just shy of my chair.
There’s a buffer of two feet between us.
I stand, too, but she reaches out—deliberate, not desperate—her palm up, open invitation.
She steps forward. I catch her by the wrist, pure reflex.
The next move is hers, and she breaks every rule I’ve written.
She steps forward and pulls me in—not hard, but unyielding—gravity, not violence.
She raises the balls of her feet because our heights are so uneven that it’s almost comical.
She lifts her face. I think she’s going to say something clever.
Or cruel. She just stands there, eyes wide, waiting.
Then she kisses me. It’s not soft, not careful.
It’s a containment breach. My lips press against hers.
Surprised. Like an absolute fool, I kiss her back.
I don't move my hands. I don't need to. If I did, there'd be no stopping.
The kiss lasts maybe a second. Maybe a year.
There is nothing else—no perimeter, no threat model, no fucking job.
When she pulls back, she doesn’t meet my lips. She doesn’t meet my eyes. She stares past me at the pale yard, the useless garden chairs, the sky darkening at the edges though it’s barely noon. I recoil first, fury at myself for breaking my own rule roaring through me.
She opens her mouth—“Cade, wait—” but I hold up my hand, my tone icy. “Don’t you say a word.” My grip on her wrists relaxes, and I step back, mouth set in a hard line, heart hammering in my ears.
She tries again, softer: “I just—” Her voice catches.
I cut her off. “No. Not a word,” and I turn on my heel, storm down the hall, not daring to look back.
Only when I reach the mudroom do I slow. I splash cold water on my face. Every drop stings. My palms shake against the tile counter; the sharp scent of bleach and lemon cleaner fills my lungs. I press my forehead to the cool wall. Taste the memory of her on my lips. Hate myself for wanting more.
When I’m certain she hasn’t followed, I check my phone: six unread texts, two security alerts. I tap a curt “Understood” to the guard captain and shove the device into my pocket. Anything more complicated right now would be a disaster.
As I step outside and put more distance between us, I scold myself for weakness. My self-rebuke is so vicious it feels like acid burning through my chest. My training—years of discipline and control have dissolved in the wake of a single kiss.
I should call Grayson now and recuse myself from this assignment. But I can’t.