Dane's POV:
I slump to the ground after shutting the door behind me, my back sliding down the wood until I hit the floor hard.
The impact knocks the air out of my lungs—but I don't welcome the breath when it comes back.
It hurts to inhale.
It hurts to exist.
She looked so fragile.
Not weak—never that—but fractured.
Like something vital had been cracked and held together only by sheer will.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Coming back to her.
Dragging her into my world .
I should have stayed away.
Should have let distance do what I couldn't—protect her.
Instead, because of me, she suffered.
The guilt doesn't just sit in my chest—it presses.
Heavy.
Crushing.
Like hands wrapped around my ribs, tightening every time I try to breathe.
Another weight added to a spine already bowed with too many sins.
When I saw her yesterday—
clothes torn,
button undone,
her body handled like she was a rag-doll—
something inside me split open.
I can still see it when I close my eyes.
Her on that floor.
The marks.
The way her body had gone so still, like it had learned that fighting back only made it worse.
My stomach twists violently, bile burning my throat.
All of it because I chose myself.
Because I thought I needed her close.
Because I convinced myself I could keep her safe.
I was a fool.
My chest tightens suddenly—sharp, stabbing—like my heart is trying to tear its way out through bone.
I curl forward without meaning to, one hand braced against the floor, the other pressing into my sternum as if I can physically hold myself together.
If Dad were here, he wouldn't need to say a word.
That look—the one that carved disappointment into silence—would be enough to finish me.
I can almost feel it now.
The judgment.
The quiet verdict.
What have I done?
The question doesn't echo—it pounds, again and again, each beat synced with the ache in my chest, each one a reminder that being with her was never the danger.
Thinking I could outrun my past was.
After everything, I had to bring her home.
My home.
Here, every wall knows my name.
Every corridor answers to me.
Every shadow is something I've already memorized.
Here, there are no blind spots—only lines of sight I've already calculated a hundred times.
Here, I can protect her.
Here, no one would dare touch her.
The thought settles into my bones like a vow.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to the barracks. I'll open every file.
Trace every connection.
Revisit every man I've erased from the world and every ghost that might still be breathing somewhere in the dark.
But today—
today is for her.
Today, nothing exists outside these walls. Not enemies.
Not consequences.
Not the war waiting for me the moment I step outside.
Just us.
Just the sound of her breathing.
Just the proof that she's alive.
Just the quiet, fragile miracle of her being under my roof, where every instinct in me is screaming the same thing over and over again:
Mine to protect.
Mine to shield.
Mine to keep breathing.
And if the world wants her back—
It will have to come through me first.
The door opens suddenly.
She's standing there, small in the doorway, shoulders curled inward like she's bracing for impact.
Her face is wet with tears she didn't bother wiping away.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I—I can't… I don't want to stay alone."
She keeps her eyes on the floor, like looking at me might break something she doesn't have the strength to put back together.
Something in my chest tightens, sharp and immediate.
She has to survive this.
Because if she doesn't—neither will I.
I push myself up before my body can argue, before the ache in my bones reminds me how exhausted I am.
I move closer, careful, slow, like she might bolt if I move too fast.
She doesn't.
Her gaze drifts past me, taking in the living room as if she's grounding herself in objects, in walls, in anything solid.
The house is quiet. Deeply so.
Dark wooden floors stretch beneath our feet, worn smooth with time.
Thick beams run across the ceiling, solid and old, like they've seen winters harsher than this one.
The walls are lined with stone and wood, the kind that holds warmth even when the world outside freezes over.
There's a fireplace set into the far wall, unlit but waiting.
A couch pulled close to it, not for guests, but for long nights when silence feels safer than noise.
Shelves stacked with books I never finished, books I thought I'd read with her one day.
When we were kids, she told me about a place like this once.
Wooden floors.
Snowy mountains.
A fireplace where we'd sit and read.
She said it like she could already see it.
Like she'd already decided this was where she'd feel safe.
She said I'd kiss her all over the face when she got cold, that I'd stroke her hair until she fell asleep mid-sentence.
I remember laughing it off.
Pretending it was nothing.
Standing here now, surrounded by the bones of that dream, the memory hurts more than anything else.
Because I built it.
Every detail.
I watch her take it in, the way her shoulders ease just a fraction, the way her breathing slows without her realizing it.
I wonder if she remembers the girl who dreamed this place into existence.
And I wonder if I've already lost the right to be part of that dream.
"Where are we?"
She asks it softly.
"We're somewhere near Switzerland," I tell her, keeping my tone even, careful.
No city names. No coordinates.
The more she knows, the more exposed she becomes—and I won't risk that.
Her nose scrunches, the way it always does when she wants to argue.
For a second I think she will.
Then she doesn't.
I take her hand.
It's ice cold—unnaturally so, like the warmth has drained out of her body and hasn't found its way back yet.
I bring her palm to my lips, pressing a slow kiss into the center of it, trying to give her something—heat, reassurance, proof that she's here and alive.
But her eyes are already distant.
She's somewhere else.
Somewhere I can't reach yet.
"Come," I murmur. "I'll show you around."
She follows me, quiet, observant.
That wide-eyed look settles over her face—the one she gets when she's absorbing everything without speaking, like she's storing it away for later.
It pulls me backward in time so hard my chest tightens.
The first time she came home with me in Chicago, we were ten.
Dad had insisted I make friends—said it wasn't normal for a kid to spend all his time shut away in his room.
Then I met Rain.
She'd shown up at my door with mint oreo ice cream smeared across her mouth, knees dirty, hair a mess, smiling like the world was hers.
The moment I saw her, I knew.
Not in a way I could explain. Just… knew.
I'd shown her what's now my old room back then.
She'd followed me exactly like this—hand tucked into mine, trusting without question.
The memory nearly knocks the breath out of me.
Her fingers snap suddenly, sharp and small, pulling me back to the present.
"This place is so beautiful," she says, voice hushed, like she's afraid to disturb it.
"You've already seen your room," I tell her. "I'll show you mine."
I step behind her, resting my hands lightly on her shoulders, guiding her forward.
She seems calmer now.
Distraction is working—at least a little.
My room opens up in front of her, and I watch her reaction instead of the space itself.
The dark walls.
The wide bay windows overlooking the mountains.
The chair by the glass where she once said she'd sit and read for hours.
Even the sheets.
It's all exactly how she described it years ago, when we were younger and when she still looked at me like that.
She doesn't say anything at first.
She just turns to look at me.
Questions crowd her eyes—soft, unspoken, heavy.
Why is it like this?
Why does it feel like I was waiting for you?
I don't answer them.
I can't.
All in good time, baby.
Once I know you're absolutely safe.
I tell myself.
For now, it's enough that she's here.
Breathing.
Standing in a room she once imagined—never knowing it would become real, or that it would hurt like this to finally bring her into it.
"Now," I say cheerily , trying to sound enthusiastic," we go to the place."
She tilts her head," What place?"
There it is.
That tiny spark of curiosity.
I almost smile.
"The kitchen," I say, deadpan. "Duh."
And just like that—
a sound slips out of her.
Just a small, surprised giggle, like it escaped before she could stop it.
It hits me straight in the chest.
God.
"I have something for you," I tell her, lowering my voice instinctively, like I'm letting her in on a secret meant only for the two of us.
Her eyes lift. Just a little brighter.
"What?"
I take her hand again—gentler this time—and guide her into the kitchen.
When we reach the counter, I don't even think about it.
I just lift her like a reflex being activated after years.
I set her on the countertop across from the stove, steadying her by the hips for half a second longer than necessary.
She looks down at me, legs dangling slightly, and for a brief moment—just one—I see her the way I used to .
"Feels familiar," she says.
Nostalgia floods the space between us—heavy, aching, impossible to ignore.
"Get used to it," I reply , mustering all the sincerity I possibly can.
She goes quiet.
"Comfortable?" I ask softly.
She nods.
And that nod—
that simple, quiet yes—
feels like the beginning of something fragile being put back together.
"Ready to taste it?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Yes. Always."
The smile that follows is real.
The kind that hits straight and settles somewhere deep.
This started when I was twelve—when I figured out that cooking was my calling.
Rain would come home from school, drop her bag, and walk straight into the kitchen like she belonged there.
Like she always has.
"I didn't see you today," she'd whine the moment she stepped into the kitchen.
"Shh," I'd say, already waving the spatula at her like it was sacred.
I cooked something. "You have to try it."
She'd squint at the pan like it personally offended her.
"That looks gross."
I'd sigh, dramatically put the spatula down, then lift her up and plop her onto the countertop because she was too short to climb up herself.
She'd sit there swinging her legs, suddenly shy, eyes flicking everywhere except my face.
I'd hold up the French toast.
Perfectly cooked, in my very professional opinion.
"Ready to taste it?"
She'd lean in, inspect it, then wrinkle her nose.
"Ew. It's burnt, Danny."
I'd clutch my chest like she'd stabbed me. "That is a bold accusation."
Then I'd grab her shoulders, all serious, lowering my voice like I was laying down a law of the universe.
"When I say 'ready to taste it,' there is only one acceptable answer," I'd tell her.
"'Yes. Always'. Do you understand?"
She'd burst out laughing.
"Why would I say that? What if it's horrible? What if you poisoned me? What if this is a prank?"
I'd roll my eyes and press a finger to her lips.
"Because it's me," I'd say simply.
She'd go quiet for a second, then break the toast in half, shove the burnt side into her own mouth, and hand me the better piece.
And then she'd smile at me—soft and certain.
"Because it's you," she'd say.
Those memories play on a loop in my head as I heat the pasta I made for her.
The first thing she ever asked me to learn.
I twirl some onto the fork and hold it out to her, instinctive as breathing.
"How is it?" I ask, already grinning.
She closes her eyes when she tastes it, like she always used to. Really tastes it.
A single noodle hangs off her lip and for a second—an absolutely ridiculous second—I feel a flash of jealousy toward pasta.
"Danny," she hums. "It's still just as good. No—"
She opens her eyes, nodding seriously.
"It's amazing. Perfect."
And for the first time since yesterday, I can finally breathe.
"You know what would make this perfect?" I say.
She looks at me, cheeks full, eyes bright.
"What?"
"Dunked Oreos."
Her face lights up immediately.
" Yayyy" she cheers
A grin spreads across her face, wide and unguarded, white sauce smeared at the corner of her mouth.
And just like that—after six years—
she makes me laugh.