Page 6

Someone makes an announcement over the intercom—a soft, even voice—but the words warp into static, incomprehensible noise. My ears pick up tone but not meaning, and my brain is too sluggish to process details.

From the subtle shifts around me, it’s important—something directed at the rescued hostages—but my body remains useless, and my mind feels detached.

I’m dissociating, falling into a fugue.

Gabe shifts beside me, straightening just slightly. “They’re going over the showers, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to feel intimate in the cabin’s quiet.

“Showers. On a plane?”

The word conjures faint, fragile memories of what that means—hot water, soap, steam wrapping everything in warmth. The idea is achingly foreign, almost too abstract to feel real, but the thought of scrubbing away the layers—layers that don’t just sit on my skin but feel fused into who I’ve become—makes my chest ache.

“Yes, sweetheart. Hot water, clean clothes… all on a plane. It’s practical, not optional,” Gabe says, reading my hesitancy without me having to utter a word.

Beside him, Hank leans back, his arm stretched casually along the back of my seat, though there’s nothing casual about his glance in Gabe’s direction.

The intercom continues, explaining things I half-hear. Mrs. Chen stands, and someone escorts her to the back of the plane.

The others shuffle back one by one, disappearing into the space beyond the curtain at the rear of the main cabin. Those emerging come back almost renewed, their movements a little less stiff, their breathing a little less shallow. The transformation isn’t miraculous, but it’s unmistakable.

Time becomes blurry, spilling over itself, moving both too slow and too fast to keep track. At some point, I blink myself awake—or lift my head from something warm and solid.

Hank.

My head rests against the broad frame of his shoulder. His hazy warmth settles beneath my skin. Sometime later, I rouse again, only to find myself leaning against Gabe this time. He shifts and drapes an arm around my shoulder, pulling me tight against him. When I stretch out a hand to the other side, Hank’s seat is empty.

Between blinks, there’s noise again. Muffled chatter. A shuffle of movement. The smell of food—something simple, warm, savory—reaches me first. When my eyes fully open, someone slides a tray in front of me.

“Time to eat, luv.” Hank sits, leaning close to ensure the tray doesn’t topple. “Need a hand with it?” The question is casual, but his hand lingers around the edge, ready to steady it.

I shake my head. “I…” The words stubbornly knot together before they can escape, but I force them through. “I’ve got it.”

My stomach churns at the smell, even though part of me aches with hunger. It’s been … I don’t know how long it’s been since I last ate anything real.

Hank grunts, stretching slightly before leaning back into his chair. “Looks like you and Malia are next in line for the showers,” he says, glancing back at the dimly lit tail section of the jet.

Gabe glances over at Malia, snuggling with Walt. Her chin tips faintly toward me—not a comment, not really a gesture, but a subtle acknowledgment.

“You’re up,” Gabe murmurs, his usual restrained warmth laced with a flicker of humor. Something softer. “Time to strip and get cleaned up.” His lips twitch upward, the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen from him.

I shift as my face flushes. “I’m… I don’t think I?—”

“You’re going,” Hank interrupts, voice flat and firm. “And we’ll help you. It’s not a suggestion.”

Gabe snorts, one corner of his mouth tugging upward. His gaze flicks toward Hank. “You’re getting the full Hank experience, sweetheart. Everything’s orders and commands with him.”

Hank glances at Gabe, his eyes narrowing. It’s more playful than harsh. “Does the job, doesn’t it?”

They leave no room for argument, but I don’t feel the urge to try. The way they talk to me—pulling me into this strange rhythm—makes obeying them feel natural. Not forced. Just… normal.

“I don’t…” My voice sounds too weak to argue, but I try anyway. “I can’t…”

“Like I said. Not a discussion. You’ll feel tons better after.” Hank cuts me off in that steady, unmovable way of his. His gaze sharpens as it dips to mine—not unkind, but absolute.

“Come on. We’ll help you.” Gabe’s tone is softer, more coaxing, like gentling a skittish animal.

When Hank stands, I move before my brain processes the decision. My body obeys him without question.

Steam spills from the back of the plane into the aisle. The fresh, invigorating scent of soap—that warm, clean kind that lingers like an embrace—flares in the air.

I have no energy for a shower, the promise of it is almost enough to make me weep. Hank and Gabe guide me back.

“It’s all yours,” Gabe says as he ushers me into the spacious shower facility.

I glance around at the impossibly clean space. The mirror gleams under the soft overhead light, and the shower stall—a real shower on a plane—is still fogged from its previous use. On the counter, a folded shirt, loose pants, and socks await me.

But I freeze. My limbs refuse to cooperate.

“I can’t…” I murmur, hands trembling as I reach for the buttons on my grimy shirt. No matter how hard I try, they feel foreign and disconnected from me. My exhaustion weighs everything down, turning simple movements into insurmountable tasks.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I jump before realizing it’s Hank. Gabe stands to the side, leaning against the counter. Both of them are calm and watchful, their expressions gentle and nonjudgmental.

“Let us help,” Gabe suggests softly, leaving no room for argument.

I shake my head, overwhelmed. Everything feels like too much. Tears spill over, hot and silent, streaking down my cheeks. “I—I can’t?—”

The weight of my fatigue crashes over me all at once. While I yearn for the comfort of a shower, the thought of undressing and going through the motions feels insurmountable, like climbing a mountain.

“You don’t need to do anything,” Hank says softly, stepping closer. His eyes meet mine, steady and gentle. “We’ll take care of you. Purely professional. Do you trust us?”

Trust? They saved my life.

Twice.

I look between them, my resistance melting under the weight of my exhaustion and their quiet assurance. My hands drop to my sides as I give a slight nod.

“Alright,” I whisper.

Gabe offers a reassuring smile. “We’ve got you.”

They move carefully… so gentle.

Respectful.

Hank reaches for the top button of my grimy shirt while Gabe starts at the bottom. Their fingers work deftly, unfastening each button with deliberate gentleness. The fabric falls away slowly, and cool air touches my skin, but there’s no room for embarrassment—only a profound sense of relief.

As they ease the shirt off my shoulders, their eyes remain respectful, focused on the task rather than on me. Hank kneels to untie my worn shoes, sliding them off and setting them aside. Gabe steadies me as I step out of my pants.

“You’re doing great, luv,” Hank murmurs, his voice a comforting rumble.

Gabe nods, his gaze warm. “Almost there, sweetheart.”

Their hands are sure but tender, lifting away the layers of dirt and fatigue that have weighed me down for so long. With each piece of clothing removed, I feel lighter, like they’re not just undressing me but also peeling away the remnants of my ordeal.

Standing there, vulnerable yet unafraid, their overwhelming care overshadows any shame I might have felt. Instead of feeling exposed, I feel sheltered.

Protected.

“In you go,” Hank says quietly.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, my voice barely more than a breath.

Gabe meets my eyes, offering a gentle squeeze to my hand. “We’re here if you need help.”

An unexpected warmth blooms within my chest—a sense of being truly seen and cared for. I allow myself to lean on them, trusting their steady presence. My soul feels lighter.

It’s been too long since I’ve been able to say that.

Once again, tears spill down my cheeks, but when the water hits my skin, they wash away.

The heat is startling. It shocks me out of the haze I’ve been trapped in, but only partially—enough to feel the water cascading over my skin, burning away the filth caked into every pore. The chill of the steppe, the stink of dust and ash, the months of grime buried so deep I was convinced it had become a part of me—it all washes away in rivulets that swirl around the drain.

The water stings as it hits raw, chapped skin in places I hadn’t realized were scraped or bruised. A sharp gasp slips from my throat, echoing in the steamy air. My knees buckle slightly. The floor feels slick beneath my feet.

A hand shoots out, firm and grounding, catching my arm before I can stumble.

“Easy.”

Hank’s voice is low, steady, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. He steps in close, eyes locked on mine, not demanding—just offering.

“We’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

I blink through the haze. The warmth from the water is a shock after the cold dirt and chaos. My breath trembles. “I don’t… I’m just…” Words knot in my throat, useless.

Gabe stands a few feet away, his hands loose at his sides, eyes kind but serious. “If you need help, just say the word,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “We’ll stay fully covered. Just boxers, nothing more. We’re not here to take anything from you. We’re here to help.”

“This would be a hell of a lot easier if we were in there with you,” Hank adds gently. “To keep you steady. To help wash the grime off without hurting you more.”

I hesitate. Their presence is big—both of them tall, broad, imposing—but it doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels… solid. Like safety I haven’t felt in too long.

“Okay,” I whisper. My voice is a rasp, but they hear me.

They move slow.

No sudden gestures, no prying eyes. Just slow movement as they strip off tactical gear, boots thudding against the rubber floor. They step into the shower stall with me when they’re down to black boxer briefs. The glass walls fog instantly, mist curling around us like smoke.

Hank stands to my right, one hand hovering near my shoulder in case I wobble again. Gabe moves to my left, adjusting the spray so it doesn’t hit my face too hard. Their bodies radiate heat, but they never crowd me. Never touch without a clear, careful warning.

Water sluices over us, carving rivers through the layers of dirt caked on my skin. My hair clings to my neck, mud and blood swirling down the drain. I shiver, not from the cold, but from the slow unwinding of terror and release of adrenaline.

My body starts to believe it’s safe.

Hank’s palm brushes lightly along my spine, steadying me when I sway again.

“We’ve got you,” he says again, and this time, I believe him. “Let go, luv,” he murmurs.

Gabe lathers soap between his hands, his touch gentle as he washes away the layers of dirt and fatigue. His fingers work carefully through the tangled knots of my hair with unhurried patience.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Hank assures me. “We’re here.”

Surrounded by their steady presence, I surrender to the moment. Warmth envelops me, and a semblance of peace settles within me for the first time in what feels like forever.

I close my eyes against the sting of the water—the heat, the sensation of Gabe’s hands weaving through the strands of my hair. I try not to think about what’s happening, but my body betrays me—shivering, aching for more than just comfort.

Muscles begin to unravel, tension slipping away piece by piece. Without meaning to, I lean into Gabe’s hands and into the solid press of Hank’s grip.

It should feel wrong, being naked like this—raw, exposed—in front of strangers. My clothes are on the floor, left in a crumpled heap. Some part of me whispers that I should shield myself, hide, but instead, a strange calm settles over me, soft and heavy.

I try to summon embarrassment, the usual tightening of self-protection—but it isn’t there. What rises in its place feels weightless, instinctual, like an acceptance I don’t quite understand.

Strangely, it feels like we’ve done this a thousand times before—even though we haven’t.

Soap lathers warm against my shoulders. Hank’s hands move with exquisite care, each motion calculated and restrained. His palms skim across my skin without lingering, every movement steady and efficient. He avoids the raw spaces on my body—the bruises, the scars—but he doesn’t recoil from them. Instead, he traces a path around them, like acknowledging a map but choosing another route.

Behind me, Gabe combs his fingers through my hair again, working the last of the soap out with the same deliberate care. The cascade washes over the back of my neck, the sensation grounding me in a way I can’t explain.

Neither of them speak much. When they do, it’s simple and clear.

“Lift your arm.”

“Turn this way.”

“Good girl,” Hank murmurs, his voice low but without the edge of authority I expect. It’s firm but unfailingly gentle, leaving no room for hesitation but somehow wrapping me in comfort.

I respond without thinking, as though the space between their words and my body doesn’t exist. My movements feel automatic—turning when they guide me, leaning where they direct, lifting one leg and then another. There’s relief in not having to decide what comes next.

There’s care in their movements that I can’t name. Maybe it’s reverence, or maybe just patience. Whatever it is, it holds me together instead of pulling me apart. They treat me like I’m fragile but not broken.

And that means the world to me.

The last of the shampoo rinses away, spiraling down the drain in soapy rivulets. My eyes flutter closed again, the heat of the water sinking into my skin like an offering, soothing aches I hadn’t even realized were there. My chest hitches sharp, wobbling tremor I try to stifle—but no one says anything.

The silence doesn’t feel awkward or empty. It feels safe, like they’re making space for me to break if I need to.

Gabe’s hands brush over my hair one last time, smoothing—checking that no strands are left untouched. The water sliding down my back is warm, almost comforting, but when my shoulders tremble under the lingering weight of everything, Hank catches me. His hand clamps gently around my arm, steadying me, then slides carefully to my back, guiding me into his arms without hesitation.

It’s been hours, maybe days, since I let myself lean on anything that wasn’t me. Since I allowed anything other than survival to bolster me even an inch. For so long, I believed I couldn’t, that every crutch I reached for would be pulled from me the moment I relied on it.

But Hank doesn’t waver.

Gabe doesn’t hesitate.

My breath hitches again, harsher this time. It shudders through me, dragging tears I try to bury to the surface. The first one spills before I realize it’s happening, hot against my cooler skin. Hank’s arms tug tighter, anchoring me.

I press my forehead against his chest, instinct pulling me closer. His arms tighten, full of tender restraint and unwavering care, holding me upright without crushing me. The sensation of my bare skin pressing against his chest should feel awkward, so wrong, but instead, it feels grounding.

Hank doesn’t say a word. I don’t think I want him to. His body is sure and steady, a kind of immovable calm that feels like it could hold the rest of the world at bay.

And then there’s warmth behind me.

Gabe steps close, his movements so quiet I barely register them until the heat from his chest brushes against my back. It’s not intrusive—he doesn’t pull me away from Hank or press against me—but he doesn’t leave space either. He exists there, an intentional solidity, the closeness of his torso curling around the curve of my shoulders as if forbidding even the possibility of falling.

For a moment, time stops. Nothing exists but their solid presence, one at my front, the other at my back, stitching me together where I didn’t know I was breaking.

Hank’s arm tightens slightly across my back, and Gabe’s hand brushes briefly along one of my shoulders, fleeting, but impossibly grounding.

They don’t speak.

The silence between the three of us stretches, but it feels full. Not with unspoken words or attempts at explanations but with something wordless.

Steady.

Undeniable.

Something breaks loose inside me, tearing free with a sudden, ugly force. The sob hits before I can stop it, ripping through my chest like it’s been waiting for its chance to claw its way out. My body crumples, muscles giving way all at once.

“Shh.” Hank’s voice rumbles against my ear.

Two sets of hands catch me. One grips my shoulders, grounding me. The other slides around my waist, anchoring me upright.

“We’ve got you,” Gabe says softly, almost a whisper.

And somehow, I believe them.

By the time they dry me off and dress me in clean clothes—soft cotton that doesn’t itch and doesn’t constrict—I feel hollowed out in the best and worst way.

Wrung out, like weeks’ worth of survival poured out of me in one sitting. My body should feel lighter, but the exhaustion settles into every fiber of my being.

Hank and Gabe walk me back into the cabin, their movements still perfectly in sync, unspoken communication passing between them in the slightest of glances. They guide me toward the same row of seats, settling me back in place.

I expect them to leave—to let me curl in on myself while they return to their team—but they don’t.

Hank takes the aisle seat beside me, broad shoulders blocking out everything beyond the edge of my vision. Gabe slides into the seat on my other side, quiet as ever, but his hand brushes the edge of mine as he settles. Instinctually, I thread my fingers through his, interlocking our hands.

I let my head fall back against the plush seat, the taut lines of my body slowly unraveling as the weight of their presence settles over me like a shield.

Hank leans slightly in Gabe’s direction, tilting his head in some almost imperceptible way that makes Gabe glance between him and me as if confirming something they both already know.

I don’t have the words for it, but the air between us feels charged, as if coalescing into something I can’t explain.

“Go to sleep, luv,” Hank rumbles, his voice dropping low, his hand steadying my shoulder as though testing the weight of it against me. “We’ll watch over you.”

Exhaustion wins before I can resist. My head tilts, falling sideways into someone—Hank or Gabe, I don’t know, and I don’t care—and for once, the darkness that claims me feels peaceful.