Page 121 of Silent Shadows

Also because he is holding his breath like a man trying very hard not to wake a bear.

“I’m awake,” I whisper.

He exhales. “Thank God. My left arm has ceased all communication with the central command.”

I lift my head. His glasses are off, his hair crushed on one side, pillow lines pressed into his cheek.

It is truly rude.

“You look terrible,” I whisper, lying.

His smile is sleepy and crooked. “You look like someone who spent the night in a coffin.”

“I did.”

“You chose that.”

“Under duress.”

“Sexual duress?”

“Don’t push it,” I pause, but my hand runs along his chest. “But yes.”

We untangle with the silent teamwork of two people dismantling a bomb. By the time I slip out of his bunk, my hair is a disaster, my shorts are twisted, and my entire body feels like it was folded into origami by a cryptid researcher.

Miles catches my wrist before I can step away and pulls me back to him.

Just once. Just lightly.

I look back.

His face is still soft from sleep, but his eyes are awake.

“Are we good?” he asks. And there it is. That thing he does. The question under the question. Did I regret it? Did he hurt me? Did the daylight change the answer?

I swallow and smile. “We’re good.”

Relief moves through him before he can hide it.

Then he lets me go.

I make it to the bathroom before anyone else wakes up, still feeling totally out of my element in this tiny space. I brush my teeth, bump my elbows into the walls while I fix my hair into something that says “field journalist” rather than “woman who boned her source,” and change into clean clothes to face the day.

The morning is a blur of chaos masquerading as order. Taylor spreads maps across the table, pinning corners down with a flashlight, a protein bar, and someone’s suspiciously large knife. Jax works through footage from the drones, scrubbing frame by frame while muttering to himself. Maya catalogs the casts and samples with the seriousness of a museum curator handling dinosaur bones.

Miles is everywhere.

At the monitors.

Over Taylor’s shoulder.

Outside checking batteries.

Back inside adjusting map overlays.

Calm, focused, and brilliant in a way that makes me want to walk over and kiss the back of his neck.

I hate that I can’t. I hate that I want to.