Page 56

Jude

T hree days later, I woke up before the sun.

Not because of nightmares.

Not because of fear.

Just because I wanted to watch the man beside me breathe.

Cyclone slept like a soldier—on his back, one hand draped over his chest, the other resting near mine.

Even in sleep, he kept me close.

I traced the line of his jaw with my gaze, memorizing the way his lashes curled at the tips and the faint scar above his temple.

He’d nearly died for me.

But more than that—

He’d stayed.

When I told him the truth.

When I fell apart.

When I couldn’t promise him anything but the mess I was still trying to clean up.

He’d stayed.

I slipped out of bed, padded into the kitchen, and made coffee—his mug, my mug, side by side.

He joined me a few minutes later, shirtless, hair sticking up, eyes sleepy but soft.

“Can I ask you something?” I said, handing him his mug.

“Always.”

“What if I never stop looking over my shoulder?”

He stepped closer.

Wrapped an arm around my waist.

Pressed a kiss to my temple.

“Then I’ll always be the one behind you.”