Page 90 of Echo: Line

She reorganized the weapons locker in our quarters. Perfectly logical—better system, easier access, more secure. But I come back from a supply run to find my gear moved, and the sight of my rearranged equipment triggers something sharp and irrational.

"You moved my gear." The words come out sharper than I intend.

Delaney looks up from the laptop, surprise crossing her face. "Your 'system' was chaos. This is organized by threat priority and frequency of use."

"I don't need efficient. I need familiar."

"It's a locker, Alex. I was trying to help."

She closes the laptop and stands. "What's really going on here?"

"Nothing. Just don't touch my gear."

"You're pulling away again."

She's reading me perfectly. "No I'm not."

"Yes you are." She steps closer. "Every time things get good, every time we're actually happy, you find a reason to create distance. Pick a fight over nothing, shut down, push me out. And I'm done pretending not to notice."

"Delaney—"

"No." Her voice sharpens. "You don't get to pick a fight over a weapons locker because you're uncomfortable with how good this is. We nearly died in that facility. I took a bullet, you carried me out, and we made it. We're here, we're building something, and you need to stop sabotaging it."

"I'm not?—"

"You are." She doesn't let me finish. "Every time we get close, every time this feels permanent, you find something to push against. It's not about the locker. It's about you not knowing how to let someone in."

The words hit harder than they should. She's right. I've spent years alone, compartmentalized, keeping people at arm's length because it's safer. Easier. And now she's here, in my space, reorganizing things and making herself at home, and part of me is terrified of what that means.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit. "The domestic thing. Sharing space. Having someone... stay."

"Then learn." Her expression softens slightly. "I'm not asking for perfect. I'm asking you to stop looking for exits every time things feel good."

She stares at me for a long moment. Then she moves closer, close enough that I can see the determination in her eyes, the refusal to let me retreat.

"Listen to me." Her voice is steady. "I love you. Not despite what you are or what you've done. Just you. The operator, the man with nightmares, the one who saves people, all of it. And I need you to stop waiting for this to fall apart. I'm not leaving. I reorganized the locker because I live here now. With you. So stop fighting that."

The words break through defenses I didn't know I still had. All the walls I've built, the distance I've maintained—it crumbles under the weight of her certainty.

"I love you too," I tell her. "And you're right. I don't know how to do this. But I want to learn."

"Good." She takes my hand. "Start by not being an ass about the locker."

"Your system does make more sense," I admit.

"I know." But she's smiling when she says it.

I pull her against me, careful of her healing wound, and she fits perfectly. Like she was always meant to be here.

"I'm sorry," I say against her hair. "About the locker. About being an ass."

"You reorganized my evidence board last week."

"That was different."

"How?"

"Mine made sense."