I shouldn’t be watching her out of the corner of my eye, tracking the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curl into the fabric of her hoodie like she’s holding herself together with sheer will.

But I do.

And that’s the problem.

This was never supposed to be personal.

Helping her was supposed to be almost like a mission, a favor—something I could walk away from when it was over. I’ve handled black-market deals, tracked criminals, and taken out people who needed to disappear.

I’ve infiltrated human traffickers, pulled women and children out of situations most people pretend don’t exist. I’ve walked through abandoned buildings, back alleys where one wrong move meant a bullet to the head.

I know how to survive in those spaces. I know the rules, the risks, the exit strategies.

But this?

There’s no protocol for this. No extraction point. No end date.

And the moment I heard that heartbeat—the moment I saw her crack under the force of it—I realized something I wasn’t ready to admit.

I can’t just walk away from this.

From her and this innocent baby.

Fuck.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles aching from the force of it.

This isn’t who I am.

I don’t settle. I don’t build. I move. I fight. I protect. And when it’s over, I leave.

Lately, it’s been different—I tattoo, stay for a while, then find another place to call home. Temporary. Always temporary.

So why the fuck am I sitting here, feeling like if I let her go, I’ll be making the biggest mistake of my life?

Blythe exhales beside me, shifting in her seat. I glance at her, catching the way she tucks into herself, hood pulled low, body curled inward like she’s trying to disappear. Like if she stays small enough, still enough, she can slip through the cracks, escape whatever’s closing in on her.

She looks exhausted. Not just physically—something deeper, something that seeps into a person’s bones, makes them forget what it’s like to breathe without waiting for the next hit to land.

I recognize that look.

I used to see it every time I looked in the mirror.

She thinks I don’t understand what she’s feeling. That I don’t know what it’s like to be stuck, trapped, counting the seconds between disasters.

She’s wrong.

I grew up in a house where breathing too loud could get you hurt. Where silence wasn’t peace—it was a fucking warning.

My father wasn’t just a bastard. He was a man who found joy in breaking things—people, bones, spirits—and acted like it was his right.

And Therese?