I glance over at Christian, who's still seated across from me, his posture rigid as his fingers hover over his phone screen. The tension in his jaw hasn't eased, and I can see the weight of the situation bearing down on him, a heavy cloak draped over his shoulders.
"You need some rest, Christian," I say softly, breaking the silence.
He doesn't look up immediately, his focus still locked on whatever message he's typing. When he finally meets my gaze, there's a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as though the thought of resting hadn't even crossed his mind.
"I'm fine," he says, his tone clipped, but there's an edge of weariness in his voice that betrays him.
I shake my head, leaning forward, offering him the same advice he gave me earlier in the day. "You're not a machine, Christian. You've been going nonstop, and you can't protect Mia—or anyone else—if you're running on empty."
He exhales sharply, his eyes flicking toward Mia, who's still fast asleep on the sofa. For a moment, his shoulders slump ever so slightly, the cracks in his armor momentarily visible.
"I can't afford to rest," he mutters, almost to himself.
"You can't afford not to," I counter, my voice firm but gentle. "Mia needs you sharp, and so do I. We'll handle this, Christian. Together. But you have to take care of yourself, too."
His eyes narrow slightly, as if weighing my words. He's not used to being told what to do, but I can see he knows I'm right. Finally, he leans back in his chair, his fingers loosening their grip on his phone.
"I'll rest when this is over," he says, though the resolve in his voice has softened.
I sigh, knowing it's as close to a concession as I'm going to get. "At least try to close your eyes for a few minutes. Even a little sleep will help."
He nods faintly, and though I can tell he's still resisting the idea, he stands and moves toward the armchair near Mia. Lowering himself into it, he closes his eyes, his posture still far too tense for true relaxation.
As I watch him, a pang of empathy tugs at me. He's carrying so much—more than anyone should have to. And while I can't take that burden from him, I can make sure he's not carrying it alone.
For now, I let the quiet settle over the room, keeping watch while they both find a moment's respite. It's not much, but it's something. And with the storm still brewing, we'll need every ounce of strength we can muster.
The soft glow of the table lamp casts a warm, golden light over the room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Mia's steady breathing fills the air, a gentle rhythm in the stillness. I glance over at Christian, who appears to be drifting off in the armchair, his features softening slightly in sleep. For a moment, the weight of everything fades, leaving only the quiet of this temporary reprieve.
But Mia can't stay here. The sofa's too small, and she needs proper rest. I rise slowly, careful not to make any sudden noise, and step toward her. Kneeling beside the sofa, I gently touch her shoulder.
"Mia," I whisper softly, but she doesn't stir. Her exhaustion runs deep, and I decide not to wake her.
With deliberate care, I slide one arm under her legs and the other around her back. She's light, her frame almost weightless in my arms, but the vulnerability in her relaxed features tugs at my heart. Slowly, I stand, cradling her against me as I make my way toward the bedroom.
The door creaks softly as I push it open with my foot. The room is dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city outside the window. I carefully lower Mia onto the bed, tucking her in under the plush white comforter. She stirs slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but she doesn't wake.
Standing by the bedside, I watch her for a moment. Her face is peaceful now, a stark contrast to the fear and tension she carried earlier. I hope this sleep brings her even a sliver of solace, though I know the battle is far from over.
As I step back toward the door, I glance once more at Mia, then pull it closed behind me, leaving it ajar just enough to hear her if she calls out.
Returning to the main room, I see Christian still in the armchair, his head tilted slightly to the side. He looks as though he might finally be giving in to sleep, though his brow remains furrowed, even in rest.
For now, this quiet moment is enough. But I know it won't last. We'll need to be ready for whatever comes next.
I step into the living area, the weight of the night pressing down on me. The soft hum of the heater fills the silence, a comforting counterpoint to the storm brewing outside. I fill the kettle with water, my movements automatic. The scent of Earl Grey wafts up, soothing and grounding, if only slightly.
With the warm mug cradled in my hands, I walk to the large windows overlooking Portland. The city sprawls below, its streets alive with movement even at this late hour. Yet up here, everything feels still.
I take a sip of the tea, the warmth spreading through me, though it does little to quell the chill in my chest. My reflection stares back at me in the glass, pale and weary, my eyes shadowed with the weight of the past few hours.
My mind churns, replaying every detail—Mia's terror, the note, Christian's quiet yet all-consuming anger. The puzzle pieces refuse to align, leaving only jagged edges of uncertainty and fear.
For a fleeting moment, I let my guard slip. Closing my eyes, I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the window. The weight of responsibility bears down on me, unrelenting. But I can't falter. Not now.
The sharp buzz of my phone shatters the stillness, jolting me back to the moment. I set my mug down on the windowsill and fish the phone from my pocket. It's a message from Taylor.
Taylor: All quiet on the hotel perimeter. Guards are in place. The suite is secured.
I exhale softly, letting the tension ease just a fraction as I type back:
Me: Understood. Anything from Welch?
A moment later, his reply appears:
Taylor: No updates yet. He's still digging into the messages. Will notify the second anything comes through.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard, the hesitation brief before I type:
Me: Keep me posted. The Greys are asleep. Thank you, Jason.
His response is immediate:
Taylor: Always.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, the brief exchange a lifeline amidst the chaos. Taylor's steady presence and vigilance offer a measure of comfort, even as the night stretches on, heavy and unyielding.
In the reflection of the window, I see Christian. He's stirring, shifting slightly in his chair but not yet awake. For a moment, I watch him.
The lines of tension carved deep into his face remain, even in sleep. His unyielding drive to protect those he loves is palpable, a force that matches my own sense of duty. But I can't help but wonder if he feels it too—the same nagging fear of the unknown, the same urgency to uncover answers before time runs out.
I turn away from the window, my hand brushing over my phone again, as if waiting for the next message, the next development that might bring clarity—or more chaos.
Taking another sip of tea as I glance toward the bedroom door. Mia is safe for now, and Christian has finally allowed himself to rest, even if just for a moment.
The tea is almost gone, but I hold the mug close, savoring the small comfort it provides. The night stretches ahead, long and uncertain, but I'll stay vigilant. For Mia. For Christian. For all of us.
The soft sounds of the city below barely mask the quiet in the room, a stillness broken only by the occasional murmur of Christian's restless breathing. I walk away from the window, placing my empty mug on the nearby table, and glance toward him.
He stirs in the armchair, his brow furrowed and his lips moving soundlessly. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead.
At first, I think he's just shifting in his sleep, but then a low, pained sound escapes his lips. It's almost a whimper, raw and broken, unlike anything I've heard from him before.
"Don't," he mumbled, his voice low and strained. The word sliced through the silence, making my pulse quicken.
I watched him carefully, the tension in his features tugging at something deep inside me.
"No," he mumbled, his voice rough, a low murmur that sent a shiver up my spine.
I straightened, my pulse quickening as he stirred again. His jaw clenched, and his hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly, his knuckles white.
"Stop," he muttered, louder this time, his tone raw, cracking with desperation. "Stop it… It hurts."
My heart clenched at the sound. I moved closer, crouching down in front of him. "Christian?" I whispered, reaching out but hesitating just before touching him.
"It burns," he gasped, his head tossing to the side. His face twisted in pain, his voice laced with terror. "No, stop… It burns!"
The anguish in his words sent a cold wave of dread through me. What was he reliving?
"Christian," I said again, firmer this time, my hand gently brushing his arm. "Wake up. It's just a dream."
His body jerked violently at the touch, and his eyes snapped open. For a moment, he looked at me, his gaze wild and unseeing, his chest heaving as if he'd just surfaced from drowning.
"Christian," I said softly, keeping my voice steady as I gently touched his cheek. "It's me. Ana. You're safe."
His breathing slowed slightly as recognition dawned in his eyes. He exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping as the tension drained from him, though the haunted look in his gaze remained.
"It was just a dream," I whispered, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead. "You're okay now."
He leaned back into the chair, dragging a hand down his face. "It didn't feel like a dream," he muttered, his voice hoarse, almost broken.
I hesitated, torn between asking what had haunted him and giving him the space he so clearly needed. "You kept saying it hurt," I said carefully. "And… something about burning. Do you remember?"
He shook his head almost imperceptibly, his jaw tightening. "It's nothing," he said, his tone clipped, but the way his hand trembled as he rested it on the armrest told me otherwise.
I didn't press further. Instead, I placed my hand over his, offering silent comfort. "I'm here," I said softly, holding his gaze.
His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but he closed them again, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he gave a small nod, the weight of whatever he wasn't saying hanging heavy between us.
I stayed there, crouched beside him, holding his hand as the room fell back into quiet. Whatever battle he was fighting, I couldn't join him in it—not yet. But I'd be there when he was ready.
As I stand up and move toward the window, I'm caught off guard when I feel a sudden, strong pull. Before I can react, Christian's arm wraps around my waist, and he tugs me back toward him, forcing me to sit almost on top of him on the chair. His movements are quick, almost desperate, as though he's afraid I'll slip away if he doesn't hold on tightly enough.
I freeze for a moment, my heart racing in response to the intensity of his touch. Christian's body is rigid, his grip firm, yet there's something fragile about the way he holds me, something that speaks of a deep, unspoken fear. He pulls me closer, pressing my back against his chest, burying his face against the crook of my neck as though he's seeking refuge in the warmth and comfort I offer.
"Anastasia," he breathes my name, his voice raw and hoarse, "don't go."
I feel his hands trembling slightly against my skin, and it's as though everything—the tension, the pain, the nightmares—has finally broken through the walls he's so carefully constructed. He's not pushing me away, like I expect him to. Instead, he's holding me with an intensity that makes it impossible to ignore the turmoil inside him. It's as though, for the first time in a long time, he's allowing himself to need someone.
"I'm not going anywhere, Christian," I whisper, reaching up to gently stroke his hair, trying to soothe him. My own voice trembles, but I keep it steady for him, even as my heart aches at the vulnerability he's showing. "I'm right here."
Christian's breathing is uneven, warm and shallow against the curve of my neck. His arms wrap around me tightly, as if I'm the only thing keeping him grounded. I feel the tremor in his hands against my skin, the tension in his body pressing against mine. He holds me as though letting go would destroy him.
"I can't lose you," he murmurs, his voice breaking on the last word. The raw emotion in his tone sends a shiver through me, but there's something else there—something deeper, unspoken.
I try to turn my head to see his face, but he keeps it buried against me, his forehead resting against my shoulder. The warmth of his breath fans across my neck, and I feel the weight of his emotions even if I can't fully understand them.
"You won't," I whisper, my voice steady despite the way my heart pounds in my chest. "I'm right here, Christian. I'm not going anywhere."
He exhales shakily, his arms tightening briefly before relaxing. He doesn't let go, though—he still holds me close, as though he's afraid of losing this fragile moment.
For a long while, neither of us spoke. The silence between us feels heavy, filled with things neither of us is ready to say. I thread my fingers through his hair, hoping to calm him, though the closeness sends a flutter through my chest that I can't quite ignore.
"You're too good," he murmurs suddenly, his voice barely audible, as though the words slipped out without his permission.
I pause, my fingers stilling for a moment. "Too good?" I ask softly, unsure of what he means.
"For me," he replies after a beat, his voice laced with something bittersweet.
I want to argue, to tell him he's wrong, but something about the vulnerability in his tone stops me. Instead, I tighten my hold on his hand, silently letting him know I'm here.
Christian shifts slightly, resting his chin on my shoulder now. His lips are so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. He sighs, a sound heavy with exhaustion and something else I can't quite place.
"I don't deserve you, Anastasia," he murmurs, his voice soft but weighted.
I close my eyes, his words piercing through me in a way I don't fully understand. "You don't get to decide that," I say quietly, my voice steady but gentle.
He doesn't respond right away. I feel him press his face against my neck again, his breathing slowly evening out. But there's a tension in the way he holds me, a hesitation that makes me think he's holding something back.
What is it, Christian? I want to ask. What are you so afraid of?
Instead, I stay silent, allowing him this moment of vulnerability. His grip on me softens slightly, though he still keeps me close, as though he's afraid I'll slip away if he lets go entirely.
If only I knew the truth—that in this quiet moment, in the way he holds me, he's revealing more than he ever intended. That his desperation isn't just about protecting me but about something deeper. Something he can't bring himself to admit, even as it consumes him.
I can feel it in the way he breathes my name, so soft I almost miss it. "Anastasia."
And as I whisper back, "I'm here," I can't shake the feeling that there's more to this than he's letting on.
He exhales shakily against my neck, and for a long moment, we sit there in silence, the only sound being the rhythm of his breathing slowly returning to normal. I don't know what he's been fighting in his dreams, what kind of ghosts he's running from, but I do know one thing—he's not alone anymore.
I lean back slightly, just enough to see his face, and for the first time since all of this started, I let myself truly see the weight of his emotions. His eyes are closed now, but there's still a flicker of something darker in the depths of them, something he's trying to bury.
"You're safe," I whisper, my voice soft but firm. "You don't have to go through this alone."
Christian doesn't answer right away. Instead, he tightens his hold on me, pulling me closer still. His forehead rests against mine, his breath steadying as he lets out a long sigh, as if he's exhaling the weight of a thousand worries.
"I'm sorry," he says finally, his voice barely audible. The words hang in the air between us, heavier than anything he's said before.
"No need to apologize," I reply, turning to straddle him, gently cupping his cheek, my thumb brushing over the rough stubble. "You don't have to apologize for needing me, Christian."
He stays quiet for a moment, his eyes still closed, his face nuzzled into the side of my neck. The weight of the night, of everything that has happened, still clings to us both, but in this moment, it's just the two of us. In the stillness, we find a fragile peace, a sense of solace in the quiet comfort we give each other.