12. Chapter Twelve Abby

Chapter Twelve: Abby

I woke to the subtle rhythm of Nathan's breathing, a sound so familiar now it was like my own heartbeat. He lay behind me, his presence as undeniable as the sun that peeked through the blinds, yet he might as well have been a world away. Since our fight yesterday, not a single word had passed between us. I felt the weight of his silence pressing down on me, heavier than any argument we'd ever had.

I shifted slightly, hoping for some kind of reaction, a sign that he was still with me in this, but nothing came. The tension in the room clung to me, tight and suffocating. I couldn't shake the feeling that something had fundamentally shifted. Nathan had never been one to hold back, his desires as clear and demanding as his commands. But last night, even with anger hanging thick in the air, he hadn't touched me.

Hadn't used me.

And I didn't know which was worse–the sting of his hands or the cold absence of them.

I sat up, clutching the sheets to my chest, and glanced over my shoulder. His eyes were closed, long lashes casting shadows against his sculpted cheeks, but I knew he wasn't asleep.

When had I started to care? To really care about this man who was both my target and my protector? The realization was like a punch to the gut, leaving me winded and wary. I'd spent weeks next to him, learning his routines, the softness he hid behind a wall of brutality. And somewhere along the line, the boundaries had blurred, the FBI agent in me overshadowed by the woman who craved his touch, his approval, his...love?

Yes. His love.

I loved him. More than I'd ever loved anyone, and that scared the shit out of me.

Because I had fallen for the most dangerous man I'd ever met. And I was terrified of what that meant for both of us.

I slipped out of the bed. My phone was cold in my hand as I picked it up from the nightstand. Pulling on my old, ugly PJs—the ones that didn't match and had seen better days, but something I'd at least bought myself and brought back from my apartment—I avoided looking back at him, afraid that if I did, I'd never leave.

The stairs creaked under my feet. In the kitchen, the morning light spilled through the window, bathing everything in a soft glow that felt like a lie against the backdrop of our lives.

But there, among the spider plants and ferns, I saw it—the peace lily. It stood proudly in a new pot, nestled between the greenery. Nathan must have done that. The gesture was so…sweet, it gave me an unexpected pulse of hope. Maybe, just maybe, we could find our way through all of this together.

I set to work making coffee, barely glancing up as I heard Nathan's footsteps upstairs, then on the steps. The rich aroma of the coffee was already filling the space between us as Nathan came down and took a seat at the island, hands clasped. He was quiet, his presence both comforting and unnerving. I busied myself with my phone, scrolling for any news on Tyler. But there was nothing—no messages, no updates—just silence.

Nathan watched me, his dark eyes following every move I made. We didn't speak. There was too much to say and no words to bridge the gap. So we sat in the silence, waiting for the coffee machine to interrupt the quiet standstill of our thoughts.

The coffee machine beeped, a mundane sound that was somehow so loud it almost made me jump. I poured us both a cup, the dark liquid swirling into white mugs that seemed too innocent for the kitchen of a man with Nathan's connections. I finally turned around and looked at him. His face was stoic, eyes focused on me as if he was trying to decipher a puzzle that kept altering its pieces.

"Black, right?" I asked, even though I already knew his preference. It was my feeble attempt at injecting normalcy into an abnormal situation.

"Yes," he responded, his voice low and steady. Sliding his cup across the marble countertop, our fingers brushed against each other for just a fleeting moment. That slight touch sent shockwaves through me, making the room feel ten degrees warmer.

Leaning back against the counter, I cradled my own mug as if it could provide some sort of barrier between us. The steam rose up from my cup, momentarily clouding my vision. Opening my mouth to say something–anything–to fill the void felt like stepping onto uncertain ground.

My fingers twitched. "So are we finally going to–"

The shrill sound of my phone ringing shattered the moment, cutting me off mid-sentence. I flinched, glancing at Nathan. His expression didn't change, though there was a slight narrowing of his eyes—an almost unreadable sign.

I snatched the phone from the counter, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to break free. The number flashing on the screen wasn't one I recognized. I frowned, the familiarity of this situation clawing at me. This was how Tyler, my FBI contact whose body was now serving as compost, would ring me when things were about to hit the fan. And that meant trouble.

"Are you going to answer it?" Nathan's voice was cool, detached, but I caught the faintest trace of curiosity in his tone.

"Give me a second," I muttered, thumb hovering over the accept button. This could change everything. With a deep breath, hoping to steady my racing pulse, I tapped the screen and lifted the phone to my ear.

I met Nathan's unwavering gaze, the weight of the unknown pressing against my chest. Without a word, I pressed the speaker button, letting the call fill the space between us. I hoped he understood this was my attempt at being transparent after everything that had happened.

"Abigail Harper speaking," I answered, with a calm I didn't feel.

"Good morning, Agent Harper. This is Diane Hayes," the voice on the other end was crisp, professional. "I'm Tyler Matthews' handler at the Bureau."

Nathan's eyes flickered to the phone, then back to me, his expression unreadable as stone but for a subtle tightening around his eyes. I leaned against the kitchen counter, steadying myself.

"Is there a problem?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.

"Tyler has gone off-grid," Diane continued. "We haven't heard from him in days. There's concern he may have been compromised by the Triad."

I held my breath as silence enveloped the room, the seconds ticking by like a timebomb waiting to detonate. Obviously Tyler was dead, but…getting mixed up with the Triad?

That didn't sound like him.

Then again, he had been a bit of an asshole.

Nathan's stoic face offered no solace, his unreadable expression a fortress I couldn't breach. My eyes flicked towards him, silently mouthing a desperate question, "Did you know anything about this?"

His head gave a firm shake. No hint of guilt or surprise marred his features.

"Can I help?" I managed to say into the phone, focusing on the disembodied voice that seemed miles away despite blaring from the speaker.

Hayes' voice came through, clear and direct, slicing through the tension. "We need you to consider coming to San Francisco HQ. It's imperative we debrief you on anything you might know about Tyler."

Fuck. My heart hammered in my chest.

"One second, Agent Hayes," I said. "My signal is kind of bad here. I need to move to a different room."

I put her on mute and put my phone face down, just in case, as I looked at Nathan. "What–"

He shook his head. "Keep talking, Abby," he said, his voice so quiet I practically had to strain to hear him.

I flipped my phone over and put her on speakerphone. "Sure, I can do that," I replied, my response automatic, but my mind raced with the implications. A trip to HQ meant leaving Nathan's orbit, breaking whatever fragile connection we'd built. I didn't even want to think about how this might mean I wouldn't get him back.

"I'll give you the address," she said. "You got something to write with?"

Nathan wordlessly took a neat pad of paper and a pen out of a drawer in the island, then slid them over to me.

"Ready," I said, pen poised over the notepad.

Diane rattled off the address, then a number where I could reach her if something came up. I scribbled them down, each stroke of the pen etching deeper uncertainty into my gut.

"Thank you," I said, and ended the call.

The finality of the click echoed through the big kitchen, and I glanced back at Nathan. His obsidian eyes held mine, steady and unreadable.

"What do you want me to say?" I asked, my voice low and steady despite the turmoil inside. "I'll be your insider at the FBI—if it means you'll trust me again."

"I will never trust you again," he said. "I've learned my lesson."

The knot in the pit of my stomach tightened. "Let me try, at least."

"Okay, try," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Honestly, I'll be incredibly impressed if you somehow manage to make it out of this alive."