Page 15

Lincoln

I wake up feeling like I barely slept, yet my body is oddly alert as every muscle hums with the memory of last night. The warm morning light spills through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the room. I blink a few times, trying to get my bearings. For a moment, I don’t move. My head is crowded with images of Isabel. Her voice, the arch of her back, the way her breath caught in her throat as she gripped my arms. Part of me still can’t believe we let ourselves cross that line. But here we are.

The alarm on my phone buzzes on the nightstand. With a low groan, I sit up, scrubbing a hand over my face. Today is our last full day before Devereaux’s private party. Tomorrow night, everything we’ve worked toward, everything we’re risking, comes to a head. Between the tension of the mission and the charged intimacy Isabel and I shared, my mind feels like it’s balancing on the edge of a knife.

I throw off the covers, half expecting to hear some sign of movement from across the hallway. But the house is silent. Isabel must still be asleep. With a resigned sigh, I decide it’s probably a good time to get dressed and make coffee. She’s going to need caffeine after last night, and especially after how late we ended up pushing ourselves. My chest tightens at the memory of how close we came, how we tested each other’s boundaries and wants. A wave of need courses through me, followed by a pang of guilt. I’m here to keep her safe, not to get swept up in desire.

Still, I can’t deny the warmth that spreads through my chest when I think of the look in her eyes, the low sounds she made that made every nerve in my body light up. I push away those thoughts for now, tugging on a worn gray T-shirt and a pair of jeans. I need to keep my head level. If there’s one thing my military days taught me, it’s that focus is everything.

Stepping into the kitchen, I flip on the light. The small safe-house layout feels strangely cozy this morning, and I can’t help noticing the small details we’ve left scattered around—a coffee mug on the table from yesterday, a pair of her socks by the couch. Signs that we’ve made this place home, if only temporarily. The tension in my shoulders loosens a bit. Maybe home is wherever we can breathe together.

My stomach growls, reminding me we didn’t have much of a real dinner last night—too focused on each other and the swirl of emotions between us. I recall that Isabel loves pancakes, something she mentioned during our “get to know you” sessions. She even teased me about how she’d eat them with Nutella if given a choice. That’s it. I’ll make pancakes. A small gesture that might put a smile on her face and ease the awkwardness that’s bound to set in if we don’t address last night head-on.

Rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, I find some pancake mix—thankfully not expired—and the basics: eggs, milk, a bowl, a whisk. The fridge yields no Nutella, no fresh fruit. I frown at the limited selection, then spot a half-empty bottle of chocolate syrup in the door. That’ll have to do. As I glance at the cupboards again, searching for something else sweet, I stumble across a bag of trail mix. It’s mostly nuts, but I see a few dried cranberries in there, which might add some sweetness. It’s a strange combination, but hey, I’m improvising.

With the stove on, I mix the batter carefully. The smell of flour and eggs wafts through the kitchen, and it’s surprisingly comforting. I haven’t cooked pancakes in a while—usually, it’s protein bars and coffee for me—but the act itself feels grounding. My mind churns with a thousand thoughts: the mission, the toy we tried out, the fact that we’re pretending to be a married couple tomorrow night in front of some very dangerous people. Yet, as I pour the batter into the frying pan, I focus on the hiss and bubble, on the swirl of the wooden spoon, letting the simple, repetitive motions calm me.

The first few pancakes come out golden-brown, though a bit lopsided. I shrug at my handiwork. They’ll taste fine, I hope. I chop up a handful of dried cranberries into tiny pieces and sprinkle them on top, then drizzle chocolate syrup in a spiral. It looks… interesting, to say the least. I try not to think too hard about how weird the combination is. All that matters is the gesture.

I’m plating the last pancake when I hear the soft pad of footsteps behind me. Isabel’s voice is still husky with sleep: “Morning.”

I turn, spatula in hand, and almost drop it. She’s in a loose T-shirt—mine, actually, or at least I think it is—and a pair of sleep shorts. Her dark hair is pulled into a messy bun, and the sight of her sets my pulse racing. Memories of last night flash before my eyes, and I push them down with a swallow. “Hey,” I manage, offering a smile I hope looks casual. “You’re up early.”

She steps closer to the stove, eyes flicking to the pancakes. “Oh, wow. You made breakfast?”

I nod, flipping off the burner and pulling the pan away. “Yeah. Thought we could, uh, have something decent for once. Sorry I didn’t have fresh fruit… or Nutella.” I give her a sheepish grin, gesturing at the chocolate syrup drizzled across the top. “I improvised.”

She gives a small, amused smile, though there’s a tension in her eyes. I’m sure it probably echoes my own. “Chocolate syrup and dried cranberries, huh? That’s… original.”

I shrug, setting the plate down on the small kitchen table. “You said you liked pancakes. Figured I’d give it a shot.”

Her grin warms a fraction, and she slides into one of the chairs. “I appreciate it. Wanna join me?”

I grab two forks and a pair of plates. My stomach churns with a mix of nerves and excitement. We spent the night pushing uncharted territory, so I’m half-worried breakfast might be awkward. But as she digs into the first pancake, I see curiosity in her eyes. I settle in across from her, cutting a bite of pancake for myself. The chocolate syrup glistens like tar on a highway, the dried cranberries looking suspiciously out of place.

Still, I lift the fork to my mouth, bracing for the taste. It’s… bizarre. The pancake itself is fine, fluffy and warm, but the combination of sweet syrup and tangy dried fruit is downright jarring. I nearly choke on the flavor. “Uh,” I manage, trying to swallow as quickly as possible.

Isabel’s eyes widen, and she fumbles for her napkin, coughing out a tiny laugh. “Oh my God, it’s terrible.”

I force it down, my entire face scrunching in sympathy. “Yeah, that’s, um… it’s not what I expected.”

She sets her fork aside, her cheeks coloring as she tries to stifle a giggle. “I’m so sorry, Lincoln, but that’s absolutely vile.”

For half a second, embarrassment flares in my chest. But then I watch her giggles transform into full-blown laughter, and something inside me unclenches. I can’t help but join in, the ridiculousness of the situation too great to ignore. We’re on the cusp of a dangerous mission, the memory of last night still burning between us, and here we are, choking on the world’s worst pancake concoction. It’s absurd, and it’s hilarious.

“Guess I should’ve stuck to plain syrup,” I say, pushing the plate away, still chuckling.

Isabel wipes her eyes, tears of laughter shining. “No offense, but this is worse than those MREs you said you ate in the military.”

“Oh, it’s definitely worse,” I reply, feigning a shudder. “At least those had some flavor.”

She tries to regain composure, though another wave of giggles escapes when she looks at the pancake massacre on her plate. “Well, A for effort,” she says. “We can, uh, salvage the morning with some coffee, maybe toast.”

I nod, grabbing our plates to dispose of the evidence. “Deal. I’ll toss this and brew some coffee. You want to do the toast?”

“Sure.” She stands, glancing around the cupboards. The tension in the air softens into something warm, affectionate, as we shuffle around each other in the small kitchen—me rinsing plates, her rummaging for bread. The memory of last night hovers in the background, but the laughter helps ease the weight. We’re still us, even if everything is different now.

Soon, we’re seated at the table again, armed with cups of coffee and plain toast. It’s not glamorous, but at least it’s edible. Isabel tears off a corner of her toast, chewing thoughtfully, and I sense she’s working up to say something.

“Last night,” she begins softly, her eyes darting up to meet mine. “I just… I want you to know that I don’t regret it.”

My chest tightens, and a swarm of emotions floods me—relief, gratitude, an undercurrent of longing. “Me neither,” I say. “I was worried maybe I’d crossed a line, or we had, you know…”

She shakes her head, a small smile curving her lips. “No. I mean, yes, we definitely crossed a line, but it’s not like we didn’t both want it.” Her cheeks color at the admission.

I lean forward, resting my arms on the table. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. With the mission, with us, with all of it.”

She exhales, looking contemplative. “I am. It’s a lot, and I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that we have to pretend we’re married in, like, a day. But… I’m okay.”

I cover her hand with mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Good. Because I’m here. Whatever happens, we handle it together, yeah?”

A flicker of tenderness warms her expression, and she nods. “Together.”

After finishing our coffee—thankfully not as catastrophic as the pancakes—I push back my chair, glancing toward the window. The morning light outside looks too inviting to ignore, the pines swaying in a gentle breeze that promises a crisp, clear day. We’ve spent too many hours cooped up in this safe house, consumed by the chase for leads. Maybe a bit of fresh air is exactly what we need to keep ourselves grounded.

“How about a walk?” I ask, gesturing to the window. “We could use a break from all the stress. Clear our heads.”

She brightens at the suggestion. “That sounds perfect.”

Within minutes, we throw on light jackets and step onto the porch. The safe house is tucked in a quiet, forested area—a strategic location for anonymity, but also surprisingly peaceful. A cool breeze greets us, carrying the scent of pine and earth.

We set off down a dirt path that loops around the property, fallen leaves crunching underfoot. The sun has climbed higher, filtering through the trees in dappled patches of gold. Neither of us speaks for a while. Instead, we just walk side by side, letting the natural rhythm of our steps ease the lingering tension.

Eventually, Isabel glances my way. “You know,” she says, “if someone told me a week ago I’d be in a safe house with you, practicing how to be a married couple, I’d have laughed in their face.”

I chuckle, hands tucked in my pockets. “I know. It’s crazy, right? But… I’m kind of grateful for the time we’ve had to figure each other out.”

She looks thoughtful. “Yeah. I mean, we’ve worked together for ages, but we never really… talked. Not about the personal stuff.”

“No, we didn’t,” I agree. “I guess that’s on me. I’ve always kept people at arm’s length. Easier to stay focused.”

Her mouth quirks in a smile. “You are pretty intense. Must be all that discipline hammered into you by the military.”

I grin. “Partly. And partly just… me. I’ve always been serious, even as a kid.” I kick a small stone off the path, hearing it skitter over dirt. “What about you? You’ve always seemed, I don’t know, feisty. Like you’re ready to take on the world.”

She laughs, tilting her head back to gaze at the canopy of leaves. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Growing up with Dean, I had to prove I could be just as tough and resourceful as he was. It pushed me.”

We walk a bit further, the path curving around a dense cluster of pines. A squirrel darts across our route, pausing to eye us before vanishing up a trunk. Isabel points after it with a grin, then slides her hands into her jacket pockets. “You know, this is really nice,” she murmurs. “Everything’s been so tense… it’s good to feel normal for a second.”

“I get that,” I say quietly. “It reminds me of the hikes I used to take at dawn when I was stationed on bases with forest land nearby. Clears my head better than anything else.”

She gives me a curious look. “You never talk much about your time in the military.”

I shrug, kicking another stray pebble. “Some of it was classified, some of it was… tough. I saw things I’d rather not think about. But it taught me discipline, gave me a sense of purpose. And it put me on this path—security work.”

Her voice softens. “Well, I’m glad it did. I mean, selfishly speaking, I’m relieved you’re here.”

A wave of warmth spreads through my chest. “Me too,” I say, watching a patch of sunlight drift over her features. Even in a simple jacket and messy hair, she looks radiant. For a moment, I let the world narrow down to her—her eyes, her expression, the shape of her smile.

We amble on, weaving through the woods, letting conversation flow more easily. She tells me about a time she accidentally scrambled her dad’s TV antenna trying to hack local channels, and I share a story about sneaking off base to buy real coffee because I couldn’t stand the instant stuff they supplied. Our laughter feels genuine, unforced—like we’re no longer performing or strategizing. We’re just Lincoln and Isabel, two people enjoying each other’s company.

Eventually, the path loops back toward the safe house, and we slow our steps, reluctant to end the peaceful moment. Isabel glances at the sky, noticing how the sun is inching higher, the day pressing on. “We should probably get back,” she says. “We still have that mountain of final prep before tomorrow.”

I nod, though a part of me longs to stay out here all day. “Yeah. Gotta make sure we’re ready.”

As we near the porch, the safe house comes back into view, an ordinary building concealing all the high-stakes reality we’re facing. Isabel steps up onto the wooden boards, turning to me with a soft smile. “Thanks for breakfast, by the way,” she says, a teasing sparkle in her eyes. “Horrible as it was.”

I laugh, running a hand through my hair. “I’ll make it up to you one day. Next time, I’ll find actual strawberries. And maybe not ruin them with dried cranberries.”

She snorts. “Deal.”

We step inside, the warmth of the interior hitting us. The moment the door closes behind us, I feel a subtle shift—a reminder that we’re back in the real world, the clock ticking toward tomorrow night’s party. But for now, at least, there’s a sense of ease between us, a shared memory of laughter and lightness that helps offset the nerves.

We shed our jackets, hanging them on the rack by the door. Isabel gives me a playful bump with her hip as she heads toward the living room, and I catch her wrist gently, halting her. The gesture is spontaneous, my thumb brushing the inside of her arm. She looks up, surprise flickering in her gaze.

I lean down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. It’s chaste, almost brotherly, but the warmth that floods through me is anything but platonic. She exhales a small, trembling breath, and I can tell the moment she surrenders to it, just for a heartbeat, letting her forehead rest against my collarbone. My chest tightens with the familiar ache of wanting more.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, voice thick. “For… everything.”

She nods, her own voice barely above a whisper. “Same goes for you.”

We linger there for a second longer, the air charged with the intimacy of the moment. And then I head to where my laptop sits along the table. Fuck. There’s so much more I want to say to her, but don’t even know how to voice it.

I want to kiss her. I know she laid down a no kissing rule, but fuck me. Her lips look so inviting. So soft. So fuckable. Will we appear married if we don’t even kiss?