Page 81 of Echo: Line

"Too wired. You?"

"Same."

She reassembles the Glock and dry fires it to check function. Everything by the book. "I keep running tomorrow through my head. Everything that could go wrong. Everything I might screw up."

"That's normal."

"Is it? Because you all seem so calm about walking into a fortress full of people trying to kill you."

"We're terrified. We're just better at hiding it." I lean against the door frame. "Experience teaches you fear and confidence aren't opposites. You can be scared and still do the job."

"How scared are you?"

"Of dying? Not much. Done it before, almost. It's fast when it happens."

"What are you scared of then?"

The question demands honesty. "Losing you. Watching you take a bullet I should have caught. Failing to protect the one person I've let close since Syria."

She sets down the weapon, turns to face me fully. "I'm not your responsibility to protect. I'm your partner. There's a difference."

"Not to me."

"Well, get used to it." She moves closer. "Because I'm not going anywhere. Not tomorrow, not after. You're stuck with me, Mercer."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The space between us feels charged. Electrical. Like the air before a lightning strike.

"Come on," I say. "I need to move."

The gym is empty, mats clean, equipment secured. I strip off my shirt, start stretching. Delaney follows suit, down to tank top and cargo pants, already moving through warm-up routines.

"Spar?" she asks.

"You sure?"

"Need something physical. Outlet for all this tension."

We circle each other on the mat, reading movement and intention. She's learned—watching for tells, keeping her guard tight, not telegraphing. When she strikes, it's fast. Clean jab, cross, hook combination that forces me to actually defend.

I counter, sweep her legs. She rolls, comes up in guard position. We grapple—no striking now, just leverage and technique. She's smaller but uses it, slipping holds I'd catch on a larger opponent.

"You're better trained than I thought," I observe.

"The FBI taught me well." She attempts an armbar. I defend, reverse position. Now I'm on top, her wrists pinned above her head.

Her pulse hammers against my palms. Sweat dampens her hairline. We're both pulling oxygen hard.

"Delaney..."

"Don't talk." Her voice is rough. "Just don't."

I kiss her. Not gentle, not careful. Channeling everything I can't say into contact. She arches against me, wrists straining against my grip until I release them. Her hands immediately go to my face, my shoulders, my back—everywhere at once.

We don't make it off the mat.