Page 10 of Defending What's Mine

Charlotte slips past me, pausing just long enough for our gazes to lock. “I was afraid you’d say that,” she murmurs.

I file the hesitation for later analysis. Seems Charlotte is just as wary of our staged intimacy as I am.

I secure the suite one last time—bathroom clear, balcony lock engaged, hallway motion sensor active on my phone—before killing the lights. Only the soft glow of a single bedside lamp remains, throwing amber across the room’s muted décor. Charlotte stands at the dresser, loosening the clip in her hair. The ripple of brown over her shoulders is entirely unhelpful to my concentration.

“Perimeter’s good,” I report, voice pitched neutral. “No anomalies on the camera feed.”

She nods, folding her jewelry into a velvet tray. “Thanks, Asher.” Her tone is gentle, but the tightness in her posture says she’s still replaying the day on loop. Stress writes itself in the slope of her shoulders.

I cross to the sofa at the suite’s far wall. Earlier, I insisted on claiming it; hard lines, thin cushion, terrible for anyone over six feet but perfect for maintaining professional distance. Now, staring at its narrow frame, I realize just how bad the night’s going to be for my spine…and how fiercely I want to be closer to her.

She turns and catches me assessing the couch. “Second thoughts?” she asks, a hint of teasing veiling real curiosity.

“Just confirming load-bearing capacity,” I deadpan. “Looks like it was designed for ornamental pillows, not six-foot security details.”

Her laugh is soft, easing a measure of tension. “Trade you. I’ve slept in worse during hurricane relief trips.”

“Not happening,” I say automatically. It’s a protector reflex. “You take the bed.”

Charlotte crosses the carpet toward me, barefoot, silk pajama set brushing her skin like liquid midnight. She stops just out of arm’s reach and I note her faint lavender shampoo, vanilla lotion. It’s useless intel but logged anyway because my brain seems intent on cataloging everything about her. “You know,” she says softly, “there’s plenty of room.” She gestures to the king-size mattress. Her eyes search mine—challenge or invitation, impossible to tell.

I clear my throat, forcing my gaze to the floor plan pinned on the coffee table. “Bed’s your safe zone. Couch is mine. It works.”

“But you won’t actually sleep.” She folds her arms, reading me too well. “Your eyes never shut for more than five minutes at a time.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?” She steps closer, just one pace, but it slams through my circuitry like live voltage. “Look, Asher, I trust you. If sharing a bed makes things less miserable for both of us, I can handle a line in the middle.”

The mental image detonates—her inches away in the darkness, the cadence of her breathing syncing with mine. I inhale slowly, forcing rhythm: in four, hold, out four. “My job is to protect you, not complicate your life.”

“What if the complication is mutual?” Her voice is almost teasing again, but vulnerability edges it. She’s brave. She’s offering trust on a platter. And I’m torn between wanting it and safeguarding her from myself.

I glance at the locked balcony door—habit—then back to her. “We’re on a mission. Until it’s over, I need clear lines.”

Her shoulders drop. It’s not disappointment, more like resignation. She swallows, nods once. “Okay, then. Couch it is.” She turns, but I catch her hand almost without thinking.

Contact detonates. Her skin is warm, pulse fluttering beneath my thumb. She looks up, eyes wide in the low light.

“I want you to know,” I say quietly, every word weighed, “that line isn’t about how I feel. It’s about keeping you safe, here”—I tap my temple—“and here.” My free hand presses over my sternum. “You deserve strategy, not impulse.”

She studies me, expression softening. “Thank you. And…for the record, I feel it too.”

I release her hand before my resolve fractures. She pads to the bed, climbs in, arranges pillows. Lamp clicks off; darkness settles, punctuated by the rustle of sheets.

I stretch out on the couch with my knees bent, my shoulder already protesting. I face the room, eyes adjusting, ears tuned to every building creak, but awareness keeps looping back to thesteady cadence of Charlotte’s breathing. Threat index remains low; emotional index, dangerously high.

Minutes, maybe hours pass. At some point her voice drifts through the dark, soft and half-asleep. “Asher?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for being my safe zone.”

The words land deeper than any bullet ever could. “Always,” I whisper.

I stare into the dark, body alert, heart unarmored. A line exists between us for now. It’s an honorable, necessary line. Tonight I guard that line. Tomorrow? Unknown. But as long as she’s safe, the mission holds.

And I’ll endure any couch in the world to keep it that way.

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