Page 11 of Make Them Bleed

“Arrow.” I widen my eyes in innocent-puppy mode. “I promised you I’d take a breather.”

Technically true—just not from covert operations. Fromtelling himabout covert operations.

He studies me a moment longer, then sighs. “Good. You need rest.” He retrieves a bakery bag from his backpack, producing two cinnamon cruffins. “Bribe for staying off conspiracy sites.”

I gasp. “Cruffins? The black-market pastry?” Saint Pierce’s artisanal bakery sells out by 5 a.m. daily.

“Pulled some strings,” he says, puffing with mock arrogance. “Guy owed me after I debugged his POS system.”

I tear into flaky layers, caramelized sugar dusting my cardigan. Arrow leans against the bookshelf, sipping his coffee, content to watch me inhale breakfast like a gremlin. Comfortable silence blooms which is a rare oasis amid weeks of tension.

Too soon, guilt creeps in. If he knew where I’ll be tonight, he’d blow a microchip.

“So…” Arrow wipes sugar from my chin with his thumb, the casual intimacy making my pulse stutter. “Maddox has me running a remote penetration test at noon. After that, I’m free. Want to hang? Maybe binge more… Love Island Monsters?”

My stomach sinks. “Aw, I’d love to but I, uh, scheduled a therapy session.” Half-lie. I should schedule therapy.

Arrow nods slowly. “That’s good. Proud of you.”

Guilt level: expert. I stuff the rest of the cruffin into my mouth so I don’t have to talk.

Arrow’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen—green code wallpaper telling—and grimaces. “Boss texting early. Duty calls.”

He moves toward the door, then pauses. “Seriously, Junebug, you need anything—text. Even if it’s just someone to ridicule trash TV with.”

My chest tightens with affection and deception, a cocktail I didn’t order. “I know. Thanks, Arrow.”

His brown eyes latch onto mine. He hesitates like he wants to say more, and then squeezes my shoulder and slips out. The latch clicks. His footsteps fade.

I sink onto the couch, cruffin flakes snowing onto top-secret folders. “I’m the worst human.”

But the worst human still has work to do. I grab a fresh notebook, label itHOOVER OPS, and start listing tasks:

Compile Arby’s last week of texts.

Cross-check troll accounts vs. local IPs.

Print timestamped screenshots.

Meet Hoover @ 9 p.m. Bean Flicker alley.

Task four gets an aggressive underline.