POV Noelle
“Don’t lie to me, Owen!”
My voice ricochets through the kitchen hard enough to rattle the baby monitor on the counter. He freezes halfway to the hallway—broad shoulders, black T-shirt, gun at his hip, the picture of calm I suddenly hate.
“I’m not lying.” His tone is low, measured. “You’re exhausted. Go back to bed.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what I am,” I snap. “You disappear every night, you whisper on your phone, and now you’ve got Rhea following you around like she’s your shadow. What am I supposed to think?”
He exhales, rubbing his temples. “You think I’m sleeping with her.”
“Should I not?”
He turns. The lamp light cuts across his face—anger, hurt, and something darker behind both. “Rhea’s ex-military, Noelle. She covers my blind spots. That’s it.”
“Right.” My laugh cracks. “Because bodyguards always need midnight strategy meetings.”
Owen steps closer, slow and deliberate. The floorboards creak beneath him. “You really believe I’d do that to you?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” I whisper, tears burning my eyes. “You come to bed smelling like gun oil instead of home. You won’t touch me. You flinch every time Luna cries. Maybe you don’t want this life—me, her, any of it.”
He stops inches away, jaw flexing. “Say that again.”
“You don’t want me—”
He slams both palms on the counter beside me, caging me in. The sound makes the baby monitor hiss. “I told you not to say that.”
My breath catches. “Then tell me the truth!”
He leans down until his breath brushes my ear. “The truth is I haven’t slept because someone tried to shoot our daughter last week. I’m out every night hunting the man who ordered it. And Rhea’s the only one who can track his pattern.”
The world tilts. “You—what?”
He pulls a folded photo from his pocket and drops it on the counter. The grainy image shows bullet fragments, serial marks, and the name Silas Kane written underneath.
“He’s back,” Owen says quietly. “And until I know where he is, no one in this house sleeps safe.”
I stare at the picture, at the man I’ve never met but already hate. Then at Owen, whose eyes are rimmed in red, not guilt but exhaustion.
“I thought you were hiding her,” I murmur.
“I was hiding this.”
The silence between us stretches until it trembles. Then I hear it—Luna’s faint cry through the monitor, a fragile sound slicing through the air like glass.
Owen’s hands flex beside my hips. “She’s hungry.”
“I know,” I whisper, wiping my cheeks.
“Go feed her,” he says, but doesn’t move.
“Not until you look at me.”
He does—and everything in his face collapses at once: anger, fear, restraint. He cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “You think I want Rhea?”
“I—”
He presses his forehead to mine. “I want you. Even when I’m too tired to show it. Even when I think I don’t deserve it.”
The air crackles. I can smell the storm outside, the faint sweetness of formula on my shirt, his breath rough with coffee.
“Owen—”
“I’ve been living in fight mode,” he growls softly. “But when I look at you, I forget how to be a soldier.”
He kisses me—hard, punishing, desperate. I push back with the same fury. My fists tangle in his shirt, dragging him closer until the counter edge bites into my back. The kiss turns into every unsaid word between us—rage, apology, fear. When he finally pulls away, both of us are shaking.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice shredded.
“I won’t.”
His mouth finds mine again, slower now, but the hunger is still there. The baby monitor crackles with Luna’s rising cries, a reminder of everything fragile we’ve built.
I whisper against his lips, “She’s going to wake the whole block.”
“Let her,” he murmurs. “She’ll know her parents still fight for each other.”
I laugh through a tear, but the sound dies when he kisses the hollow of my throat. “I thought you didn’t want to touch me anymore.”
“I was afraid I’d break you,” he answers, looking straight into me. “Turns out you’re the only thing keeping me from breaking.”
His hands frame my face. “I love you, Noelle. I’m sorry I made you doubt it.”
The words hit deeper than any bullet. I grip his collar, forcing him to stay close. “Then stop disappearing. If there’s a war coming, you fight it with me.”
“Deal.” He breathes the word like an oath.
Luna’s cry sharpens into a wail. The storm outside hammers the windows. Inside, everything feels fragile and loud and alive. He rests his forehead against mine again, both of us panting, both half laughing, half crying. “You hear that?” he whispers.
“Our daughter,” I say.
“Our reason to survive.”
I close my eyes, letting his heartbeat steady mine. For the first time in days, I don’t feel angry—I feel seen.
He brushes his thumb over my ringless hand. “When this is over, I’m fixing that. You’ll have my name for real.”
“I already do,” I whisper. “I claimed it the night you saved me.”
The baby monitor crackles again. He smiles, soft and tired. “Go to her, angel. I’ll lock the doors.”
I step away slowly, every nerve still buzzing. At the hallway, I glance back. He’s standing there under the kitchen light, gun holstered, head bowed, jaw clenched in prayer.
For the first time, I see not the fighter but the father—the man terrified of ghosts he can’t shoot.
“Owen,” I call.
He looks up.
“Come to bed when she’s asleep,” I say. “Not the couch. Not the hallway. Our bed.”
His mouth curves into the faintest smile. “Yes, ma’am.”