POV Noelle
Luna is laughing at her spoon, smearing yogurt across her tray with delighted seriousness, and Owen is asking what I want for dinner like the answer matters. Somewhere between domestic noise and ordinary choice, the decision settles into me with a quiet finality.
I will not involve him. Not because I don’t trust or don’t love him, but because I do.
Owen stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, movements calm and practiced. He looks like a man who has learned how to exist without breaking things. That image feels fragile now, like glass held together by intention alone.
“You okay?” he asks, not turning around.
His tone is casual, but I know him too well. He asks questions the way other people set traps—gently, patiently, assuming the truth will wander out on its own.
“I’m fine,” I say, flipping a page in the book I’m not reading.
He glances over his shoulder. “You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m tired.”
He studies me, jaw tightening just slightly, then turns back to the stove. “Dinner at ten.”
“Thank you.”
It’s a small exchange. Normal. The kind of thing people build entire lives out of. It still feels like a lie.
That night, when Owen is in the shower, I sit on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hands, staring at Rhea’s name. I’ve already spoken to her once—panic, fear, half-formed sentences. This call feels different.
This one is intentional.
She answers on the first ring. “You don’t call twice unless you’ve made up your mind.”
“I have,” I say.
“That already worries me.”
“I’m not telling him.Not yet. Maybe not at all.”
Silence on the other end. Then I hear movement—fabric shifting, the scrape of a chair. Rhea settling in like she does when things turn serious.
“Noelle,” she says carefully, “you don’t make decisions like this lightly. Talk me through it.”
I close my eyes. “If I tell him, he’ll solve it the only way he knows how. Violence and finality. And consequences that don’t end with him.”
Rhea exhales slowly. “You’re assuming you can contain this.”
“I have to try.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then says, “You remember Kabul?”
“Yes,” I answer. That word from her lands heavy.
“Good,” she says. “Because I remember you sitting on a concrete floor, hands shaking so badly you couldn’t hold a cup, telling me you didn’t want to become someone who only survives by burning everything down.”
My throat tightens. “That was different.”
“No,” Rhea replies. “That was exactly the same. You were protecting someone then, too.”
“You,” I say softly.
“And you did it by thinking, not reacting,” she continues. “That’s why I stayed. That’s why I trust you.”
I swallow. “Then help me now.”
She sighs. “I will. But I need you to understand what you’re asking.”
“I know exactly what I’m asking,” I say. “You’re ex-military. Intelligence, counter-surveillance. You know how leverage works. I need you to trace it. Quietly.”
“And Owen?” she asks.
“I won’t pull him back into blood,” I say. “He survived too much to deserve that.”
“Or,” Rhea counters gently, “you don’t want to see what he becomes when he stops trying.”
“I’ve seen it,” I say. “That’s why I won’t ask.”
Rhea is silent for a long moment. Then, “You know who I am because you watched me choose restraint when violence was easier. And you know who you are because you did the same,” she continues. “But secrecy has a cost, Noelle.”
“I know,” I whisper. “It already does.”
“If this escalates,” Rhea says firmly, “you tell him.”
“I promise,” I say. “If it crosses a line.”
“I’m not doing this for him,” she adds. “I’m doing it because you’re the kind of woman who carries weight without asking others to bleed for it.”
The words stay with me long after the call ends.
When Owen comes into the bedroom later, towel slung low on his hips, steam still clinging to his skin, he looks at me like he already knows something is wrong.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he says.
“Am I?” I manage a smile. “About what?”
“If I knew,” he replies, “I’d already be trying to fix it.”
“You don’t have to fix everything,” I say. His words twist in my chest.
“That’s new,” he says, sitting beside me. “You usually want me to.”
I look away. “People change.” I repeat his words! There it is again. The phrase we keep circling like it explains anything.
He studies me. “You’re pulling away.”
“I’m focusing on keeping things steady,” I say carefully.
He nods, but his eyes don’t soften. “That sounds like something I would say.”
“Maybe I learned from you.”
“Or maybe you’re scared,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I admit. “I am.”
“Of what?”
I meet his gaze, forcing my voice to stay even. “Of losing what we finally have.”
He reaches for my hand, fingers curling around mine, warm and grounding. The touch almost breaks me.
“Then don’t shut me out,” he says.
“I’m not,” I lie. Damn, it seems to have become my new habit.
He searches my face. “You’re very good at convincing yourself you’re alone.”
I don’t answer. He squeezes my hand once, then lets go.
“I’m here,” he says, like a promise he keeps repeating.
That night, I lie awake listening to his breathing and think about Rhea in Kabul, calm under fire, choosing precision over rage. I think about the night Warren died. About the part of myself that pulled the trigger so Owen wouldn’t have to.
This isn’t betrayal, I tell myself. This is protection.
In the early hours, my phone vibrates softly.
Rhea: I traced part of the file. It didn’t come from where you think. Tomorrow.
My stomach tightens. I turn my head and watch Owen sleep, his face unguarded, peaceful in a way that feels borrowed.
“I won’t let this touch you,” I promise silently. “Either of you.”
The secrecy feels wrong but necessary. And heavy enough that I already know it won’t stay mine forever.