Page 117 of The Words Beneath the Noise

The private's throat bobbed. He was scared of me. Good. Let him be scared.

“Five minutes,” he said finally, reaching for his keys. “And I'll need to report this.”

“Report whatever you like.”

He unlocked the door and stepped aside. I pushed through before he could change his mind.

The room was small, cramped, barely enough space for a bed and a wardrobe and a tiny washstand. Grey light filteredthrough the single window, casting everything in shades of ash and shadow.

Art was on the bed.

Not sitting. Not lying down properly. Curled on his side with his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around himself, shirt half-unbuttoned and hanging loose. His shoes were on the floor where he'd kicked them off. His jacket was crumpled in the corner like he'd thrown it there. His hair was a disaster, pushed back from his face in wild tangles.

And he was crying.

Not the quiet tears I'd seen before, the ones he could control and hide and pretend away. These were the ugly kind. The kind that came from somewhere deep and broken. His whole body shook with them, shoulders heaving, breath coming in ragged gasps that sounded like they hurt.

“Art.”

His head came up. Red eyes, swollen and wet. Face blotchy with grief. Snot and tears mixing on his cheeks because he hadn't bothered to wipe them away.

“Tom.” His voice cracked on my name. “You shouldn't be here. The guard...”

“I don't care about the guard.” Crossed the room in two strides, sat on the edge of the bed, pulled him upright and into my arms before I could think about whether it was safe or wise or anything except necessary.

He came apart against me.

The crying intensified, became something raw and animal, sounds I'd only heard from men who'd lost everything. He clutched at my jacket like I was the only solid thing in a world that had turned to water. His face pressed into my neck, tears soaking into my collar, and I held him while he shattered.

“He took it,” Art gasped between sobs. “Finch. He took my notebook. My Black Book. Everything I've ever. Everythingabout you, about us, about what I feel. It's all in there. Coded but he'll crack it. He'll find everything and then we're both...”

“Shh.” Pulled him closer, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed flat against his spine. “I know. Ruth told me.”

“I tried to stop him. Tried to refuse. But he just took it. Pulled it right out of my pocket like it was nothing. Like three years of my life meant nothing.” His voice broke completely. “It was Bea's. She made it for me. Stitched my initials inside. And now Finch has it and he's going to read it and he's going to know and I can't. I can't breathe. I can't...”

His breathing was going wrong. Too fast, too shallow, the gasping rhythm of panic rather than grief. I'd seen it before in soldiers who'd been pushed past their limits. Knew what it meant if I didn't intervene.

“Art. Look at me.” Pulled back enough to cup his face in my hands, force him to meet my eyes. “Breathe with me. In through your nose. Slow. That's it. Now out through your mouth. Good. Again.”

Walked him through it the way I'd walked terrified privates through it in the middle of artillery barrages. Kept my voice steady, my hands gentle, my breathing slow and deliberate so he had something to match.

Gradually, the panic eased. His breath evened out. The wild terror in his eyes faded to something more like exhaustion and despair.

“There you are,” I said softly. “There you are. I've got you.”

“I'm sorry.” His voice was wrecked, scraped raw. “I'm so sorry. I should have been more careful. Should have destroyed the notebook months ago. Should never have written any of it down.”

“Don't apologise. Not for this. Not for needing somewhere safe to put your thoughts.”

“But now Finch will know. About everything. About us.”

“Let him know.” The words came out fiercer than I intended. “Let him decode every bloody word. He can't prove anything from coded journal entries. Can't arrest us for feelings written in cipher.”

“He can investigate. Question people. Watch us even more closely.” Art's hands fisted in my jacket again. “And he already suspects. He asked me about you directly. About our relationship. About whether you were more than an escort.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I lied.” A broken laugh. “Told him you were just a friend. Just someone who'd been kind to me. He didn't believe it. Could see it in his face. But I tried. I tried to protect you.”