Chapter 3

3

YORK

I typed in the first code on my phone, hit the button, then the second code and button, and my front door unlocked.

"Home sweet home," I muttered, though the words tasted like ash on my tongue.

"Julius was deeply impressed with your security system," Quillon said as he gently held me back and went in first. Right. I'd have to get used to him doing things like that for me.

I hung my coat with mechanical precision as Quillon checked my apartment, scanning for threats in a way that made me feel like an intruder in my sanctuary. But it wasn't until the red light of a newly installed camera blinked that reality punched me in the gut.

"Jesus." My gaze flitted from one corner of the ceiling to another, each motion sensor and lens a glaring reminder of how life had suddenly swerved off course. The apartment felt smaller, the air thicker—a gallery of watchful eyes tracking my every move.

"I'm sorry." Quillon's voice was low, steady. "But since your apartment is on the second floor, we had no choice. The cameras and sensors are turned off when you're home."

That knowledge did little to quell the unease bubbling inside me. "Feels like Big Brother has decided to bunk with me."

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to shake off the discomfort clinging to me like a second skin.

"Better than an uninvited guest with less noble intentions."

I couldn't argue with that. Not really. I sighed, resigned to the cameras' silent judgment. "Welcome to the panopticon. Hope you find the view riveting."

Quillon looked puzzled. "The what?"

"Panopticon. It's…" Oh fuck, I'd done it again. People had accused me of always showing off my knowledge, but the frustrating part was that I never realized I did it or how it had come across until afterward. "Never mind."

"I'd love for you to explain. If you want to."

He probably said that to make me feel better, but whatever. "A panopticon is a design of an institutional building, like a prison, where you can see the entire building from one central point. Pan is Greek for everything, and opticon refers to seeing, so it literally means all-seeing. The concept was devised by English philosopher and social theorist Jeremy Bentham in the eighteenth century."

"Interesting. I'll have to look up some examples."

If he was faking it—and he had to be—he did a good job of pretending he was interested. I appreciated his effort at not making me feel like crap. I did anyway, but that wasn't on him.

Time to change the topic. "Hungry? What are you in the mood for?" I forced a light tone as I took out my phone.

"Anything's fine," Quillon replied, but I caught a slight hesitation—a momentary crack in his stoic facade.

"Come on, you've got to have a preference. Spicy? Savory? Sweet?"

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Spicy. I like food with a kick. But only if you'll eat it too."

"Spicy it is, then. I eat everything. No allergies, and there are very few things I dislike. Avocado and mushrooms, that's it."

I clicked away at my phone, ordering an array of Thai dishes guaranteed to set our taste buds ablaze, and pocketed my phone. "Food will be here in about an hour. I'm gonna take a shower in the meantime."

Shit, I only had one bathroom, so he'd have to use it as well. I repressed a sigh. "I'll put out some towels and stuff for you."

Quillon pointed at a black weekend bag in the corner of the room that I had somehow overlooked. "I brought everything I need, but thank you."

"You brought your own towels?"

"I never assume I can use anyone else's."

"Whatever you prefer, but it's no bother. I have plenty and don't do my own laundry anyway."

"You have a housekeeper?"

"I have Ania. She cleans, does groceries, cooks a few meals every week, and does my laundry. Without her, I'd be lost."

"We'll have to check her background."

I could argue that Ania was a sixty-three-year-old grandmother who was active in her Russian Orthodox Church, loved watching soap operas, adored her grandkids, and had no clue about what I did, but what was the point? Quillon had a job to do. "Fine."

With the weight of the day pressing down on my shoulders, I retreated to my bedroom. God, I couldn't wait for the hot sting of water against my skin. I hovered my hand over the light switch, but darkness felt more fitting, so I walked into the dim room, lit only by the soft glow of the street lamps.

Stripping off my clothes felt like shedding layers of tension. Piece by piece, the stress fell away until I stood naked and vulnerable. I stepped under the hot spray, which was heaven against my cool flesh, and closed my eyes.

After what felt like an eternity, I shut off the water and dried myself with a towel that emitted whiffs of lavender. Ania always put little sachets of dried lavender between the towels and bed linen, an old-fashioned habit I'd grown to love.

Jesus, I was exhausted. Maybe I could lie down for just a moment? I dragged myself to bed, the sheets cool and welcoming, a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of the shower. Lying in the half-dark, I let out a long breath. Solitude. Finally.

A gentle shake on my shoulder yanked me from the depths of sleep. I snapped my eyes open. Quillon was looming over me. "York, the food's here," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room.

"Wha—?" The fog of sleep still clouded my mind, but as I shifted under his gaze, a draft of cool air swept across my skin. Oh crap. The sheets had slipped away, leaving me exposed.

"Shit!" I clutched the nearest pillow to cover myself. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I scrambled to find some semblance of modesty.

"Sorry. I didn't—" I stammered, my words tripping over themselves in their haste to exit my mouth.

"Hey, it's okay." Quillon had already turned his back, granting me the illusion of privacy in a room that suddenly felt too small.

I quickly pulled on a pair of boxers and an old T-shirt, the fabric feeling oddly constricting after the freedom of sleeping in the nude. With Quillon in the house, I'd have to wear pajamas. When I deemed myself decent enough, I cleared my throat, signaling to Quillon that it was safe to turn around. He did so with practiced ease, his eyes skirting my face before resting on my forehead.

"Apologies for the wake-up call." His diplomatic tone did little to smooth over the rough edges of my mortification. "But I figured you'd want something to eat before it got cold."

"Right, of course." Food was the last thing on my mind, but I couldn't deny the growling protest of my stomach—a physical reminder that life, in all its mundane glory, still demanded attention, even when the world seemed poised on the edge of chaos.

"Let's eat, then." At least that had come out steadier than I felt, and I brushed past him into the kitchen, where the takeout promised a distraction from the awkwardness threatening to choke the air.

While I grabbed plates and cutlery, Quillon unpacked the food with efficient movements, which were no doubt fueled by his military training. We settled into chairs opposite each other as if honoring an unspoken agreement of personal boundaries. The clink of cutlery against ceramic broke the silence as we served ourselves. The aroma of Thai basil chicken teased my senses, a temporary balm, a gustatory distraction from the disquiet threading through my thoughts.

When he took his first bite, he hid his reaction beneath a veil of professionalism.

"Spicy enough for you?" I asked.

"Perfect." Quillon nodded. "You chose well."

"I don't cook." Why was I telling him that? Maybe because the silence was also unnerving?

"Not at all?"

"Nope. I can boil an egg, make a grilled cheese sandwich, and I excel at heating up food, but that's the extent of my skills. Ania cooks three meals a week for me, and I eat takeout or ready-to-eat meals the rest of the time. Do you cook?"

I almost impressed myself by making small talk. Prime-level adulting right there.

"I do. It relaxes me."

"Feel free to use my kitchen anytime. If you need any ingredients, write them on the whiteboard on the fridge, and Ania will order them."

"Order?"

I chewed quickly. "She orders groceries to be delivered once a week."

"Gotcha."

"What kind of food do you like to cook?"

"Indian, though I'm not at this level yet." He gestured at his plate. "And Asian food in general. Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese. Oh, and Indonesian. I love the heat and their use of spices."

"I had Indonesian food for the first time a few months back. My friend, Fir, threw a get-together and had it catered by an Indonesian woman who cooked the most amazing food."

"Isn't Indonesian cuisine the best thing ever?"

It was at the tip of my tongue to offer that he could make it for me anytime, but that would be weird, right? I wasn't sure of the boundaries, but Quillon's job was to protect me, not to cook. Best not to say anything. "Do you have a partner?"

His eyes flared, but then his face was neutral again. "No. My career in the Marines wasn't the best way to meet people, and neither is my current profession. You?"

I chuckled. "Aren't you supposed to know that already?"

He shrugged. "I do, but I still prefer to ask. A background check doesn't always reveal everything, but more importantly, it's creepy for clients to discover how much we already know about them, so it's better to let them tell themselves."

That made sense. "Well, then, you know I don't have a girlfriend at the moment, and it's been a while since I had one." I sighed. "I'm not good with relationships, and women confuse the hell out of me. Their indirect communication drives me bonkers."

Quillon grinned. "You and every other man on the planet, I think."

Much to my surprise, we kept making small talk as we finished our meal and then put everything away in quiet camaraderie. But I was still exhausted, the effort to maintain the facade of normalcy too taxing after the day I'd had.

"I'm gonna listen to some music." I retrieved my noise-canceling headphones from the side table next to my favorite chair. I also had a record player since I loved the old-fashioned crackle of vinyl records, but I couldn't use headphones with it. And since I didn't want to subject Quillon to my music, my phone would have to do.

"Okay."

While I forced myself to ignore Quillon, I lowered myself into my chair and slipped my headphones over my ears. As soon as they had connected to my phone, I selected the music. The first notes of the Peer Gynt Suite flowed through the cushioned barrier, and Grieg's music wrapped around me like a familiar embrace.

The outside world fell away as I closed my eyes, surrendering to the melancholic beauty of Morning Mood . Each movement in the suite carried me further from the tension and the fear and the discomfort that had plagued me all day until I fully relaxed. My thoughts wandered like they always did when I listened to music, following a chaotic pattern of associations. From wanting to visit Norway to making a mental note to buy a new winter coat now that they were on sale, needing to invest more in semiconductors, and concluding I hadn't been to the library in forever and was due a few hours of bliss.

My eyelids grew heavy, and the music faded into the background. The receding notes lulled me into a peaceful state where my thoughts slowed until oblivion swept over me, a merciful tide pulling me into the depths of sleep.

I woke up in the darkness and blinked blearily. A blanket was draped over me. Not just any blanket, but my Star Wars fleece throw—usually tucked away in my bedroom. A warmth that had nothing to do with the fabric spread through my chest. Quillon must have covered me while I slept.

I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. How long had I slept? I glanced at the clock—three-seventeen a.m.—and stifled a yawn. Shaking off the tendrils of sleep, I pushed myself out of the chair's embrace. My protesting muscles reminded me of the unnatural angle at which I'd surrendered to fatigue. It wasn't the first time I'd fallen asleep in that chair, and it wouldn't be the last. I stretched my arms above my head, working out the kinks with a series of satisfying soft pops .

Where was Quillon? He had to be asleep by now. I took a few careful steps into the room. The sight that greeted me was disarmingly domestic. Quillon lay on the couch, his form outlined by the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm while his gentle snoring cut through the silence. His face looked softer in sleep now that the ever-present tension that seemed to pull the lines of his body taut had eased.

Satisfied he was as comfortable as he could be on the couch, I retreated to my bedroom, bringing my Star Wars fleece with me. I crawled back into bed and, within seconds, was out like a light.