Here I am, standing in my room, the soft buzz of the overhead light humming above me as I pace between the closet and my half-open suitcase on the bed. The walls feel too still, like they're holding their breath, echoing the quiet rush of thoughts in my head. I keep folding clothes, then unfolding them, then folding them again, pointlessly, because my mind is nowhere near what I'm doing.
I reach for a long black dress that drapes like water between my fingers and lay it carefully into the suitcase. Then a pair of tailored slacks and two blouses—neutral, clean-cut, the kind that make you look composed even when you're unraveling inside. I toss in a pair of heels I'll probably hate myself for wearing, but I know I might need them. A soft ivory scarf. A navy coat. I move on autopilot, clothes piling in with quiet precision, yet my chest is tight. My heartbeat has been too loud for the last hour.
And I know why.
No matter how I try to keep my thoughts where they belong—on the flight, on the investors, on the mission—my mind keeps drifting. Back to this morning. Back to him.
Dylan.
Of all things to catch me off guard, it was him standing in that kitchen, half-asleep, cooking like he'd done it every morning for years. There was something strangely disarming about it. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbow, his hair was still slightly messy from bed, and his hands moved with easy confidence as he flipped the eggs and spread avocado over toast like it was second nature. Focused. Quiet. Almost tender.
And then he looked at me.
Like, I wasn't just someone sharing a roof with him. Like he was seeing me.
The memory of that moment makes my stomach twist in a way I don't want to name.
I still can't get over how that breakfast tasted. Simple, but unexpectedly perfect. Warm toast, creamy avocado with a pinch of salt, and the yolk of the fried egg just runny enough. It wasn't the food. It was the care. Someone thought to make something for me. I haven't had that in a long time. Not without a price.
Then, those words.
"This is the least I could do to make up for what happened."
They hit me like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples through everything I thought I'd buried. The guilt in his voice wasn't fake. There was weight behind it. Regret. And beneath that, something gentler. Something human. And maybe that's what shook me the most. Not the apology itself, but the way he said it. Like it hurt him to say it. Like it mattered.
Because that day—that horrible, splintered day when Marcus tore my world apart—I remember who stood by and did nothing. I remember the silence. I remember the betrayal. And now, here Dylan is. Standing in the aftermath. Still here. Still trying.
And I hate how much that matters to me.
I pause, hands on the edge of the suitcase, fingers gripping the fabric of my coat. My throat is dry. My chest feels tight. I force myself to sit down on the bed, suddenly needing the weight of it beneath me like something solid, something real.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I'm not supposed to feel this way. I can't. I'm here to do a job. Nothing more. I'm here to help him find Dustin, to finish what we started, to protect what needs protecting, and to survive. That's the line. That's where I'm supposed to stand.
But somewhere between the tension in his jaw when I was hurt, the apology in his eyes and the way he pulled me behind him during the attack like my life meant something to him… something shifted.
And I hate how my heart is reacting. I hate how part of me wants to believe him. Part of me wants to trust him.
I rub my palms against my thighs and glance around the room. Clean, sparse, temporary. The kind of space you don't get attached to. The type of space you don't let yourself feel in.
I zip the suitcase slowly, the sound cutting through the stillness.
One last thought sneaks in, uninvited but persistent. You don't let people in, Ruth. Not anymore. You know better.
But I still remember the look on his face when he placed that plate in front of me. The softness. The guilt. The way he didn't demand thanks.
And I wondered, just for a second, if maybe letting someone in this once wouldn't be as dangerous as I kept telling myself.
The thought had barely finished forming when I was pulled back to the present by a quiet knock on my door. It was soft but intentional. I blinked, straightened up slightly, and called out, "Come in."
I turned around and saw Dylan standing there in the doorway, already dressed for the flight. A perfectly tailored black suit hugged his frame, his shirt crisp beneath the jacket. He hadn't even done anything yet, but something about the way he stood—calm, composed, quietly watching me—made the air around us shift.
His expression was gentle. Not soft in a fragile way, but steady. Something was reassuring about it.
"Are you ready?" he asked, voice low and even.
I nodded. Just a small motion, barely more than a breath. Without another word, he stepped further inside.
I tensed slightly as he moved closer, unsure of what he was about to do. My breath caught in my chest, my heart giving an involuntary stutter—but he didn't come too close. He simply picked up my suitcase from beside the bed, turned, and walked out of the room without saying anything else.
My body slowly relaxed. God, I needed to get a grip.
I followed him down the staircase, the sound of his shoes against the polished floor echoing lightly ahead of me. Outside, the air was cool and still. Parked in the drive was a sleek black SUV. Standing beside it were two familiar faces—Noah and Elijah, Dylan's guards. Both were tall, stone-faced, and dressed in all black. I'd crossed paths with them before. Professionals. Silent shadows.
They nodded politely as I stepped outside. Dylan placed my suitcase in the back and opened the rear passenger door for me. He slid in first, and I followed, settling into the seat beside him. Noah and Elijah got into the second car behind us, and with a curt nod from Dylan, our driver started the engine.
The city lights passed by in blurred streaks as we drove through the night. Buildings slipped past us like tall, sleeping giants, and the hum of the tires on the road filled the silence inside the car.
But my nerves were a mess.
Dylan was sitting right next to me—his presence quietly overwhelming. He didn't say anything. He didn't even move much. But the space between us felt too small. The heat of his arm was only inches from mine. The way his cologne—clean, sharp, familiar—drifted through the air. It made it hard to focus on anything else.
I kept my gaze trained out the window, trying to ground myself in the passing scenery. Streetlamps. Crosswalk signs. The occasional person is out far too late. Anything to keep my thoughts from spiraling back to the morning. Back to the quiet kindness. Back to the smile he gave me in the kitchen. Back to how, even now, he was doing everything he could to make this feel easy.
And yet here I was, unraveling inch by inch just because he was sitting next to me.
I folded my hands in my lap and tried to calm the storm in my chest. This was a business trip. We were going to Turkey for meetings, for strategy, for war if it came to that. Not for… whatever this feeling was creeping through my bloodstream.
But it wasn't easy to ignore. Especially not when the person I wasn't supposed to care about kept showing up like this—present, thoughtful, real.
So I stayed quiet, heart beating a little too fast, as the car carried us forward toward the airport, toward the unknown, toward a mission that might be more complicated than either of us had expected.
And beside me, Dylan remained silent. But somehow, his presence filled every inch of that car.
The car rolled smoothly through the quiet stretch of road leading to the airport, the windows reflecting streaks of light as the city slowly faded behind us. Inside, it was quiet. Not uncomfortable—but something lingered in the silence. The kind of quiet that holds words that aren't ready to be spoken yet.
Dylan sat beside me, his arm resting loosely against the console between us. He wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't fiddling with his watch. He was just… there. Still and alert. Calm, in that way he always seemed to be when the world felt like it was about to tip sideways.
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "You've been quiet since we left."
I shrugged, not meeting his gaze. "Just thinking,, I said, looking up at the road.
A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "That's dangerous. You'reinking. That usually ends with someone getting cut."
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. "Correction murdered if you have done studying my bio-data and all personal life, says the guy who stares out windows like he's in the final scene of a noir film."
That earned a genuine chuckle from him. A quiet, low sound that did things to my chest I wasn't ready to unpack. When he looked at me again, his eyes were lighter, the kind of rare softness I'd only seen glimpses of before.
"Touché," he said, turning his head fully toward me. "Yeah, murdered. I guess you figured out I know almost everything about you. He said, looking at me now, his gaze slightly intense.
I raised an eyebrow, biting back a smile. Yeahh, I figured you knew where my parents' graves were; you know everything about me because of Dustin and Marcus, of course. Nurse. I know that. Besides, evenif not for them you are a Mafioso yourself. I figured you wouldn't hire your staff without knowing them, hm? I smirked, feeling the confidence coming back to me slowly.
His expression lingered there for a second—mischief wrapped around something warmer, more real. His voice dropped slightly, just enough to make the air between us shift. "Yeah, that is quite true. I am quite the stalker, but you know, for someone who insists she doesn't like me… you're getting kind of comfortable sitting this close."
My breath caught for a second. I turned to him, eyes narrowing playfully. "That's because I'm trapped in a moving vehicle and have no other seat options."
He leaned in just slightly, lips curving into a quiet grin. "Sure. Let's go with that; I'm Danan."
I rolled my eyes, but the heat in my cheeks gave me away. Before I could recover, he added, "By the way… did you pack that dress I saw in the hallway? The ivory one."
I blinked. That caught me off guard. "Uh… yeah. Why?" I asked, feeling confused.
"It suits you," he said simply, without a hint of sarcasm. "Soft colors look good on you. They bring out your eyes."
I blinked, unsure if I heard him right. My gaze flicked to his face, searching for the usual trace of humor he used to veil real things, but there was none. His expression was calm, his eyes steady and serious in a way that left no room for second-guessing.
The compliment lingered in the air, heavier than it should have been. It was not ostentatious or flirtatious but simply honest. Quiet. And somehow that made it feel even more intimate.
My throat felt tight as I answered, "Thanks." It came out softer than I meant. Almost a whisper.
I turned toward the window quickly, trying to shake the warmth creeping up my neck. The city outside blurred past in streaks of orange and white. But I could feel it—his eyes were still on me. Just for a few seconds longer. Long enough for my heart to notice.
Then he leaned back in his seat, and the silence returned.
But it was no longer empty. It was charged, humming quietly between us like a string pulled taut. Not awkward. Just aware.
Neither of us said another word. The road stretched ahead, winding into the quiet outskirts of the city. My hand rested on the seat between us, not quite touching him, but close. Close enough that the air between our knuckles felt like a current.
By the time we pulled into the private airport entrance, the car had slowed, headlights sweeping gently across the tarmac. The world outside was washed in navy and silver, and the wind rolled across the runway in quiet gusts. There, just beyond the hangar, sat a sleek black jet, waiting beneath the soft spill of runway lights—each one flickering like stars scattered low across the ground.
The SUV came to a smooth stop. A moment later, Dylan's driver stepped out and circled to open the rear door.
Dylan stepped out of the car first, the door closing behind him with a quiet thud. A moment later, he turned back toward me, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the runway lights. He extended his hand, palm open, waiting.
His eyes met mine. Calm. Steady. "Come on," he said, voice low and gentle like a quiet promise.
I looked at his hand, hesitating—not because I didn't want to take it, but because something about the moment felt heavier than it should have. Too full of meaning for such a simple gesture.
Still, I reached out.
Our fingers touched, and his hand closed around mine. Warm, strong, and grounding. He didn't rush me. He didn't pull. He just held on.
For a breath too long, we stayed like that. Neither of us moved. The wind teased strands of my hair across my cheek, but all I could focus on was the way his thumb brushed once lightly, almost absently, across the back of my hand.
When our eyes met again, I felt it—something soft and unspoken passed between us. Not loud, not dramatic, but real. Familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
He didn't smile, not fully. But his expression shifted, just enough to tell me he understood exactly what this moment meant.
"Thanks," I murmured as I stepped out of the car, still holding onto that warmth for just a second longer.
"No problem," he said, his voice quieter now. "I've got you."
And for the first time in a long while, I believed it.
We walked through the private terminal in silence, the soft echo of our footsteps on polished floors mixing with the occasional rustle of security personnel and hushed radio static. Dylan walked a step ahead of me, his pace unhurried and steady, like he had done this a thousand times before. I stayed just behind him, his hand still gently clasped around mine.
The guards, Noah and Elijah, followed at a respectful distance, their presence silent but solid.
As we reached the lane that led to the jet, Dylan's hand slowly slipped from mine. No words, no glance, just a soft parting of touch.
And I hated how empty my palm felt afterward.
It was subtle. Probably meaningless to him. But I noticed. The absence of that warmth lingered like a phantom.
I inhaled quietly, steadying myself. We're not a thing, I reminded myself. This is work. This is business.
Still… something in me shifted.
The jet stood ahead, sleek and gleaming beneath soft hangar lights, the steps lowered in welcome. The engine murmured in a low, distant hum, like it too was waiting patiently. Dylan climbed in first, giving a small nod to one of the attendants at the entrance, and I followed behind him.
Inside, the cabin was quiet and luxurious. Cream leather seats, subtle gold accents, and the faint scent of cedarwood and something citrusy, his cologne, no doubt, still hung in the air. I took the seat beside his, near the window, and began buckling myself in.
Dylan sat across from me, stretching out just slightly in his chair. He leaned his head back for a moment, closing his eyes briefly before turning toward me again.
And then, something unexpected.
He smiled.
It was faint, barely there, but it was genuine. Not his usual smirk, not the polished one he wore in meetings or to mask discomfort. This was quieter. Softer. It crept across his features like sunlight catching the edge of something sharp, softening the lines I'd only seen hardened for months.
Gone was the cold, unreachable version of him I'd first met, the man who lived behind clipped words and guarded stares. Bit by bit, that armor had been peeling away. What was left now was someone I hadn't quite figured out… but wanted to.
And that scared me.
I looked away, trying to focus on the lights outside the window as the plane began to rumble gently beneath us, preparing for takeoff. But part of me still felt the shape of his hand in mine, the heat of it, and the weight of that unspoken moment we shared before it slipped away.
I gripped the seatbelt a little tighter as the jet angled upward, the weight of takeoff pressing me back into the soft leather seat. My knuckles were white for a moment, but I didn't say anything. I just focused on my breathing, on the low rumble of the engines, and on the view of the dark sky out the window. The pressure eased after a few minutes, and once we were smoothly gliding through the air, I finally exhaled quietly but relieved.
I glanced across at Dylan, trying to do it casually, but of course, he noticed.
He was scrolling through his phone, one arm resting on the armrest like he hadn't a care in the world. His posture was relaxed, almost annoyingly so. And then, without even looking up, he spoke.
"You're looking at me a lot more recently," he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Am I that intimidating, Danan?"
I blinked, caught mid-glance, and immediately rolled my eyes. "Yeah, you wish."
He finally looked up at me, brows lifted. That smug, clean-shaven face of his made the smirk even more irritatingly sharp. "Oh, come on. Be honest. A little intimidated?"
I scoffed softly and leaned back in my seat. "You're sitting directly in front of me. I don't have much of a choice unless I want to stare at the floor the whole flight."
"Could be worse," he said, still grinning. "The floor's not as good-looking."
I narrowed my eyes at him, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of my mouth despite myself. "Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Fynder. You already talk enough for both of us."
He chuckled under his breath, eyes dropping back to his screen for a moment, but I noticed it. That flicker of something softer behind his smirk. He didn't push the moment. Didn't say anything more.
And yet, the air between us felt lighter.
"Well, one of us has to talk," Dylan muttered, breaking the silence with a hint of impatience in his tone. His eyes flicked to mine, a gleam of annoyance hiding just beneath the cool exterior. "I don't usually talk this much, but I've noticed you have no problem chatting with Miles and James."
I raised an eyebrow, tilting my head slightly. "That's because I've known Miles longer than you," I said plainly, a subtle smirk tugging at my lips. "And James? He's just naturally funny. He keeps work light."
Dylan's brow arched. "And what's not fun about me?"
He sounded genuinely curious and wanted an answer.
I turned in my seat a little, eyes narrowing playfully. "Well, let's see. You're Dylan Fynder," I said, dragging his name out dramatically. "The big, bad mafioso who also happens to run a multimillion-dollar company. I was technically supposed to be here, killing you, remember? But everything kind of… backfired. So yeah, it's a little awkward."
His lips twitched, and I saw the smile forming before it fully appeared.
"Oh—and let's not forget," I added with a teasing glint in my eyes, "you were a bully. And I'm supposed to be playing the double agent. You know… cold, unreadable, detached."
"Well," he said, leaning slightly forward, his smirk widening, "first of all, thank you for calling me successful, Ruth. I'll take that compliment and frame it."
I rolled my eyes.
"Second," he continued, now counting on his fingers, "people like me aren't aliens. Contrary to popular belief, I do have five working senses. I eat food, I sleep, I wear socks, and yes—I can even hold a decent conversation."
I couldn't help but laugh at that, a soft, involuntary sound that slipped past my lips before I could stop it.
"And third…" he paused, his voice lowering slightly, "I did apologize this morning. You could at least give me partial credit for that."
I glanced at him, amused. "Partial credit is generous."
"But fair," he said smoothly. "Also, for the record… double agents can talk. Especially if the guy they're spying on makes a great avocado toast."
I groaned, leaning back in my seat, but I was smiling. "You're never letting that go, are you?"
"Not a chance," he said, eyes glittering with something light—something easy.
There was a pause then, but not an uncomfortable one. Just the soft lull of the jet humming around us, the quiet stretch of sky outside, and a flicker of warmth in the space between us.
The plane had settled into a steady rhythm above the clouds, its gentle hum now fading into the background. The conversation between us lingered in the air, light and teasing… But something softer had started to stir beneath it.
Dylan had gone quiet again, this time leaning back in his seat, his gaze fixed on the ceiling for a few long seconds. Then, as if he couldn't help himself, he spoke—quieter now, voice lower, like he wasn't sure if he wanted me to hear him.
"You know… when you said you were supposed to kill me, that didn't even sting."
I blinked, caught off guard. "That's... concerning."
He chuckled lightly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I meant, it didn't sting because I think I already knew. Or at least suspected it, deep down. Everyone who gets close has an angle."
"Yeah, you saw that as your golden ticket to get back at Dustin," I said with a dry chuckle, my voice low and rough from the tiredness. "Come on, Dylan. Don't pretend you completely let me off the hook out of the goodness of your heart."
He looked over at me with a lazy smirk, eyes glinting beneath the dim cabin lights. "That's true," he admitted easily. "But he deserved it. Both of them did."
His tone softened, just enough to let sincerity bleed through. "And I'm planning on giving them both a hard time—Dustin and Marcus. They made your life hell. I don't intend on giving them a peaceful ending. Consider it… payback. For everything you're doing now. For everything they took from you."
My eyes flicked to his, searching for sarcasm—but there was none. His voice held no venom, just quiet certainty. Like he'd already made up his mind and was simply letting me in on the plan.
The thought stirred something warm and strange in my chest, but I swallowed it down, forcing a small smirk onto my lips instead.
"You know," I said, nudging the conversation lighter, "the fact that you probably have a whole file on me hidden somewhere in your office is… oddly flattering."
He raised a brow, amused.
"I mean, it's creepy," I added quickly, "but still—impressive. A whole chart dedicated to me? That's commitment."
He chuckled, leaning back with that smug grin that was beginning to grow on me more than I cared to admit. "I like to be thorough."
"I can see that. When do I get to see all your little notes? The research? The conclusions?" I teased, tilting my head slightly. "Come on—don't keep your favorite subject in the dark."
He laughed softly. "If I showed you that file, you'd never let me hear the end of it."
I leaned in just a little, eyebrow raised. "Oh, so it does exist."
"Maybe," he said, voice dropping to that smooth, teasing register. "But if you think I'm sharing classified intel with a known double agent, you might be asking for too much."
"Well," I said, crossing my arms with a sly smile, "if you cook me another breakfast like this morning, I might be persuaded to forget how much of a stalker you are."
He grinned. "Deal. As long as you don't burn my house down in return."
"No promises," I said, laughing under my breath.
The banter faded into quiet again, but it left behind a warmth, like the lingering echo of something neither of us was ready to name just yet.
But it was there.
And growing.