Page 39 of Deadly Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #2)

Olivia gave up on sleep around midnight, tired of staring at the unfamiliar ceiling of her borrowed room.

Her mind wouldn’t stop cycling through tomorrow’s scenarios, each one ending in either triumph or disaster.

The hallway floorboards creaked beneath her bare feet as she padded toward the kitchen, drawn by the scents of popcorn, gummy bears, and coffee—that peculiar combination she’d come to associate with pre-mission prep.

Through the open door of the war room, she caught glimpses of Kenji and Margaret hunched over building schematics, while Deke’s voice drifted up from the basement, running through security for the hundredth time.

Sleep, it seemed, would be scarce for everyone tonight.

The kitchen wasn’t empty. Axel stood at the counter, his back to her, measuring coffee grounds in the dim light above the sink.

The familiar routine of it almost masked the tension in his shoulders, the way his movements seemed mechanical, divorced from conscious thought.

He wore just a faded Army t-shirt and cargo pants, and Olivia noticed the exhaustion in the way he braced himself against the counter’s edge .

“Still running scenarios?” she asked softly, not wanting to startle him.

He nodded without turning. “Can’t afford any surprises tomorrow.”

The coffee grinder’s sudden whir shattered the midnight quiet—a harsh, mechanical growl that filled the kitchen.

Olivia saw the exact moment it transformed in Axel’s mind into something else entirely.

His spine went rigid, hands freezing on the counter’s edge.

The grinder’s noise faded, but he remained locked in place, breath coming in shallow bursts.

She recognized that far-off look, typical among vets. The present moment disappeared, replaced by stubborn memories.

“Axel.” She kept her voice steady, professional—the voice she used in crisis intervention. No sudden movements as she stepped closer. “You’re in Hope Landing. In the kitchen. You’re safe.”

His knuckles were white where they gripped the counter, tendons standing out like cords. A muscle worked in his jaw, but his eyes remained fixed on something she couldn’t see.

“Feel the counter under your hands,” she continued, using the grounding techniques that had helped countless patients. “The temperature of the room. Listen to my voice. Can you name five things you can see right now?”

A shudder ran through him. “Counter,” he managed. “Coffee. Coffee maker. Window.” His breathing was evening out, though still too fast. “Your ... your necklace. The cross. The cricket.”

“Good.” She resisted the urge to touch him, knowing it could backfire. “Four things you can feel?”

“Counter. Floor.” He shifted his weight slightly. “My shirt. The air from the vent.”

As he listed each item, he got calmer, slowly letting the present take over from the past. When he finally turned to face her, awareness had returned to his eyes, along with something raw and unguarded she’d never seen there before.

For a heartbeat, the kitchen felt charged with unspoken things—trust and vulnerability and the weight of shared battles, though theirs were fought on different fields. The bowl of forgotten popcorn on the counter between them grew cold in the midnight quiet.

The vulnerability in his eyes hardened so quickly Olivia almost missed the transition. Axel straightened, deliberately releasing his death grip on the counter, and something in his expression shuttered closed.

“Don’t.” His voice had an edge she’d never heard before. “Whatever therapeutic technique you’re about to suggest—just don’t.”

“I wasn’t?—”

“Really?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Because from where I’m standing, Dr. Kane, you’ve got that same look you get with your patients. That careful, professional distance. Analyzing. Categorizing. Looking for symptoms to treat.”

The words hit like slaps. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” He stepped back, creating physical distance to match the emotional walls slamming into place. “I’m not one of your trauma cases. I’ve handled my own demons for years without a therapist, and I’ll keep handling them just fine.”

Olivia felt the sting of rejection bloom in her chest, but years of training kicked in. Her own walls rose, smooth and professional, as familiar as breathing. “Of course. I apologize for overstepping.”

She watched him pace the kitchen, all coiled energy and defensive pride, and couldn’t help the thought that flashed through her mind. For someone who claimed such deep faith, he certainly seemed resistant to accepting help—Divine or otherwise .

And just as quickly, the judgment in that thought made her cheeks burn with shame. Who was she to question another person’s spiritual journey?

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her voice cooling to clinical courtesy, “I should try to get some rest before tomorrow.”

As if.

Tomorrow they’d either succeed in trapping Driscoll or ... Her go-bag sat packed in her room, a constant reminder of the other possibility. Running. Leaving behind her practice, her patients, the life she’d built here. The thought of abandoning her community made her chest tight.

“Goodnight.” She turned to leave, keeping her movements measured and calm, though her heart raced with hurt and worry and that creeping fear of what tomorrow might bring.

“Olivia—” He started to say something, then stopped himself. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

She felt him watching as she left, but neither of them said anything else. Sometimes walls were easier than bridges, professional courtesy safer than whatever had almost happened in that vulnerable moment before his anger.

She’d pray about it later. Right now, she needed to focus on tomorrow’s mission. On justice for James. On survival.

Everything else—including the hollow ache in her chest—would have to wait.