Page 228 of Override

Something is wrong with me.

Not wrong in the clinical sense.

Wrong because this afternoon I caught myself watching her laugh instead of listening to what she was laughing about. Because I ordered enough food for six people without realizing there were only two of us. Because after one passing comment about missing her book, I somehow decided buying her a Kindle belonged on the same priority level as replacing the batteries in a smoke detector.

None of those decisions had anything to do with the mission. None of them increased her safety. I did them because I wanted to.

The realization settles over me with uncomfortable certainty. I know where this road leads. Not because I've loved someone before.

Because I've wanted to.

Those aren't the same thing.

Cindy and I cared about each other. We enjoyed being together. We shared routines. Somewhere along the way, I think we both assumed those things would eventually become love.

Instead, they became comfortable. Comfortable wasn't enough for either of us. I don't resent her for realizing it first. What happened after that wasn't the failure. It was the result. The failure had already happened long before either of us knew it.

I exhale slowly and stare at the ceiling.

The problem is that I haven't stopped thinking about Maeve since we left her parents' house.

Not once. I keep replaying the way she smiled when Bullet handed her the Kindle. The way she curled beneath the blanket on the couch without asking permission. The way she looked around this apartment as if she was trying to convince herself she was allowed to relax.

None of those thoughts accomplish anything. They don't improve security. They don't solve a problem.

They simply...stay. And that's unfamiliar. Because this doesn't feel comfortable. It feels dangerous. Not because of what she might do.

Because of what I'm starting to want.

I want her to laugh again tomorrow. I want her to keep wandering into the kitchen barefoot when she can't sleep. I want this apartment to become somewhere she thinks of as home instead of somewhere she's hiding.

Those thoughts arrive one after another, so naturally I don't even realize where they're leading until I reach the end of them.

I want her to stay. The admission settles quietly inside my chest. Not for the mission. Not until Ronan is found.

Just...stay.

I close my eyes. That's where people like me make mistakes. Because wanting someone to stay and someone actually staying are two very different things. I've spent enough time watching the people I care about to know what love looks like.

The apartment settles around me as the air conditioner hums to life, filling the silence just enough that I almost miss the sound from the hallway.

A floorboard. Then another.

My hand closes instinctively around the pistol resting on the nightstand, but I don't lift it. Listen first.

The footsteps are light. Bare feet. Not hurried.

Maeve.

I let my hand relax, waiting to hear the kitchen cabinet open or the refrigerator door. Instead...The footsteps stop outside my room.

My heartbeat does something strange. The handle turns slowly. The door opens only a few inches.

"Taibhse..." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Are you awake?"

Something warm unfolds in my chest before I can stop it. My name has never sounded the way it does when she says it.

Not Keaton. Not Vance. Not Skee. Taibhse. Ghost.