CHAPTER 6 THE ANCHOR IN THE DARK
"The remedial drill is complete, Mr. McClellan," Alex said, his voice a flat, detached monotone that barely carried to the hallway.
"Sign the log. We are within the sixty-minute window Cowens authorized."
Patrick didn't reach for the pen. Instead, he stepped into the small blind spot behind the desk—a move that violated every professional protocol. He stood so close that the heat from his Working Blues radiated against Alex’s shoulder.
"Alex," Patrick whispered, his baritone so low it was a vibration felt rather than heard.
"Stop the tapping."
Alex’s fingers froze against the metal desk. He looked up, the mask finally slipping to reveal the raw, exhausted man beneath.
He was spiraling, the memory of Ward’s foreign whispers from the morning drill still echoing like a breach in his hull.
"Ward is trying to build a wall out of words I don't give you, Patrick," Alex breathed, his dark eyes wide and searching the doorway for shadows.
"He's trying to make me a stranger to you in my own head.”
Patrick didn't flinch. He reached out, his hand covering Alex’s on the desk. It wasn't the fractional, accidental touch of a briefing; it was heavy and grounding—the anchor Alex had reached for in the Jetta.
Patrick leaned down, his forehead resting against Alex’s as they both dissolved into the cramped, wax-scented air of the office.
His hand moved to the nape of Alex’s neck, fingers sliding beneath the stiff collar of the Working Blue shirt to squeeze gently—a tactile signature that overrode every regulation.
"Let him talk, Alex," Patrick rasped against his skin.
"It doesn't matter. I don’t need to speak to know you’re mine. I don’t need a translation to hear your heart. I’ve been tracking you since the day we met. He’s just noise; I’m the one holding the line.”
Alex let out a long breath he had been holding since Gate 1, his head tilting into the touch. The “City of Two” wasn't a set of rules in that moment; it was the way Patrick’s thumb traced the line of his jaw, a silent reclamation of the territory Marcus was trying to invade.
"Sign the log," Alex murmured, though he didn't pull away. He turned his hand under Patrick’s, interlacing their fingers with a desperate, crushing strength.
"We have to be back in the machine in three minutes.”
"Three minutes," Patrick agreed, his lips brushing Alex’s temple in a private, forbidden concession.
The wall was still standing, and the creases were still sharp, but as Patrick finally reached for the pen to sign the manifest, the Standard felt a little less like a cage and more like a suit of armor they wore together.