[Maverick’s POV]
Morning light filters through the curtains, and I allow myself exactly thirty seconds to watch her sleep.
She's on her side, sheet tangled around her waist in a way that suggests she fights battles even in her dreams. Her hair spills across the pillow like spilled metal, and her breathing is slow, peaceful—so different from the woman who came apart in my arms last night.
My gaze catches on the scars again.
In last night's dim light, they were shadows, suggestions of something I chose not to question.
But now, in the unforgiving clarity of morning, I can see them properly—raised lines mapping her thigh and hip like a topographical record of catastrophe. They're old, healed over, the kind of scars that come from something that nearly killed her.
My jaw tightens. Whatever caused this wasn't minor. Wasn't a childhood scrape or a clumsy accident.
This was the kind of damage that requires months of recovery, surgeries, physical therapy. The kind that leaves marks both visible and invisible.
I want to know. The need claws at me with surprising ferocity—who hurt her, what happened, whether the person responsible is still breathing and therefore available for me to destroy.
But she hasn't offered the story, and I won't push. Not yet. Some things need to be given, not taken.
She stirs, and my train of thought derails entirely.
Her eyes flutter open—disoriented at first, that unfocused confusion of someone surfacing from deep sleep. Then they find me, sharpen, and recognition floods her face. A slow smile spreads across her features, sleepy and unguarded, and my chest does something deeply inconvenient.
"You're staring," she mumbles, voice rough with sleep. "That's either romantic or serial killer behavior. I'm choosing to believe the first one."
"I don't stare. I observe strategically."
"That's staring with a business degree." She stretches, catlike, and the sheet shifts in ways that test my resolve not to devour her. "How long have you been awake? Please tell me you haven't been watching me drool for hours. I have a reputation to maintain."
"You don't drool." I reach out, brush a strand of hair from her face before I can stop myself. "You do, however, steal blankets with alarming aggression. I nearly froze to death around three AM."
"Survival of the fittest. You should've fought harder for the covers." She catches my hand, presses a kiss to my palm, and the casual intimacy of it catches me off guard. "So. Last night happened."
"It did." I keep my voice level. "Any regrets?"
"Zero regrets. Possibly some muscle soreness I wasn't anticipating, but that's on me for having the flexibility of a wooden board." She grins, but then her expression sobers slightly. "What happens now? With us, I mean. The crew is literally down the hall."
And there it is—the complication I've been avoiding thinking about for the past thirty seconds of watching her sleep like some besotted fool who's clearly lost all sense of self-preservation.
"We need to be careful," I say, and the words taste wrong in my mouth. Careful. Like she's a liability to manage rather than the woman I just spent the night memorizing. "The crew is everywhere. One wrong glance and rumors start. Marina already watches everything like a hawk with a personal vendetta against happiness."
Floris nods, sobering completely now. "So we pretend nothing happened? Go back to professional distance and strategic temperature adjustments?"
"For now. Separate rooms tonight." I deliver this like simple logistics, like I'm discussing flight schedules rather than the fact that I want to lock this door and keep her here indefinitely. "Too risky otherwise. Someone notices, someone talks, and suddenly our careful arrangement becomes tabloid fodder."
"Right. The arrangement." Something flickers across her face—gone before I can identify it. "Professional fake engagement with occasional benefits."
"Exactly." The word feels hollow.
She nods once, then offers a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Okay. Separate rooms. Professional distance. I can do that. I'm excellent at pretending things are fine when they're complicated. It's basically my superpower."
"Along with aggressive blanket theft and catastrophic chess strategy."
"Don't forget my championship-level Mafia skills." Her smile becomes more genuine. "I contain multitudes, Maverick."
***
The day passes in stolen glances and careful distance. We're professionals—impeccable, appropriate, giving absolutely nothing away.
When our eyes meet across the lodge's common room, I look away first. When she laughs at something Sam says during lunch, I study my phone like quarterly reports have suddenly become the most riveting literature ever written.
Marina watches us both with narrowed eyes, and I pretend not to notice. Derek makes a joke about the hot tub that Sam finds hilarious, and I offer a polite smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
The whole performance is exhausting.
It's infuriating too. And I'm terrible at it.
That night, alone in my bed, I can't sleep. The sheets feel wrong—too cold, too empty, arranged without the chaos of another person stealing covers with alarming aggression. The room feels wrong too, silent in a way that grates against nerves I didn't know I had.
I'm irritated at myself. Genuinely, deeply annoyed. I've slept alone for twenty-nine years. One night with her shouldn't rewire my entire system, shouldn't make solitude feel like punishment rather than preference.
This is ridiculous. I'm ridiculous.
I've negotiated billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, but apparently one night with a woman who talks in her sleep about croissants has completely undone me.
Pathetic. Truly pathetic.
I get up and pace the room like a caged animal with too much money and not enough sense. Tell myself I'm getting water, which is a lie I don't even bother making convincing.
In the hallway, passing her door, I hear it.
Muffled sounds, not screaming—nothing that dramatic—but distressed whimpering. The rustle of sheets tangling around someone fighting invisible demons. The kind of sounds that make something in my chest twist painfully.
I don't knock. Don't hesitate. Don't give myself time to reconsider.
I just open the door.
She's tangled in blankets, face wet with tears, trapped in something I can't fight for her. Her body twists against phantom restraints, small sounds of distress escaping her throat, and the sight hits me like a physical blow.
All my money, all my power, all my carefully cultivated control—none of it can protect her from whatever nightmare has her in its grip.
I cross to the bed, sit on the edge, and her eyes fly open.
Disoriented first—that wild, unfocused terror of someone ripped from nightmare into reality. Then recognition, her gaze sharpening as she processes my presence. Then embarrassment, flooding her features as she realizes what I'm seeing, what I've witnessed.
"I'm fine," she says immediately, already wiping her face with trembling hands. Her voice is hoarse, cracked around the edges. "Just a weird dream… You can go, Maverick. Really. I'm fine. This is embarrassing, and you should absolutely pretend you didn't see any of this…"
"I'm not going anywhere."
The words come out flat, factual. Not soft, not comforting—just the truth, delivered without negotiation. I'm not leaving her alone with whatever darkness just had her crying in her sleep, no matter how many times she insists she's fine.
Her eyes meet mine, searching for something—an excuse, maybe, or permission to fall apart. "Maverick…"
"I said, I'm not going anywhere," I repeat. "Whatever it is, whatever you saw—I'm here. And I'm staying."