The motel room is too bright.

Peter turns off the overhead light immediately and switches to the lamp instead. Softer. Harder to silhouette from outside.

He doesn’t say why. He doesn’t have to.

Five days ago, he was a voice on a phone in a secure basement. Now he checks the deadbolt twice and wedges a chair under the handle like he’s done it his entire life.

You watch him move around the room — not frantic, not paranoid. Intentional. He checks the bathroom. The vent. Under the beds. Tests the window frame with his hand.

Three days ago, he would’ve called in the location.

Now his phone stays in his pocket.

The shift happened the night a secure address he logged was compromised within hours. He didn’t say much when he realized it. Just went still. Then quiet.

Since then, it’s been cash. Back roads. Rotating routes.

No more trusting the system.

He finishes his sweep and finally looks at you.

“You okay?”

It’s automatic. He asks it every time you stop moving for more than a few seconds.

You nod.

He studies you anyway, like he doesn’t fully believe it.

That’s the thing about the last three days — proximity has replaced formality. There’s no polite distance anymore. You’ve sat shoulder to shoulder in the car for hours. Fallen asleep against him once when you swore you wouldn’t. Woken up to find he hadn’t moved.

He shrugs off his jacket and sets his gun on the nightstand within reach. Not dramatic. Just placement.

The room is small. Too small not to feel each other’s presence.

He leans against the wall near the door — the position that gives him the clearest line of sight to both you and the exit.

Always between you and danger.

You step closer without thinking.

It’s subtle. Just one step.

His eyes track it.

Not wary.

Aware.

“You should try to sleep,” he says.

There’s nothing romantic in the words. Just logistics.

“We’ll move before sunrise.”

You don’t answer.

You’re close enough now that you can see the faint tension in his jaw. The restraint.

Three days ago, when this became unofficial — when he chose not to report in — something changed between you. Not all at once. Just in increments. His hand lingering a second longer at your back. The way he says your name lower now. Like it means something heavier.

You shift slightly.

His hand comes up automatically to steady you.

It lands at your waist.

He stills.

You both do.

It isn’t smooth. It isn’t confident. It’s instinct.

His thumb presses just slightly before he seems to realize what he’s doing.

He doesn’t remove it.

“You don’t have to stand that close,” he says quietly.

You don’t step back.

Neither does he.

There’s a pause — the kind that stretches because neither of you wants to break it first.

The conspiracy is still out there. The threat still real. Someone powerful still looking for you.

But right now, the only thing that feels dangerous is how little space is left between you.

Peter exhales slowly.

“I’m not handing you off,” he says. Not intense. Not dramatic. Just clear. “No matter how high this goes.”