He exhales, the tension in his chest loosening as he follows my touch. "That one's for my mom."

His hand covers mine, pressing it flat against the ink. "She used to hum this song when I was little," he says. "When I was sick, when I couldn't sleep. I don't remember the lyrics, but I remember the melody." He tilts his forearm toward me. "The notes are here. I had someone translate them onto a staff." A pause. "It's not perfect, but it's close enough."

I try and fight the tears threatening to well in my eyes. That's... God. That's the most beautiful fucking tribute I've ever heard. I let my fingers glide over the ink, pressing my palm against it like I'm holding a sacred memory.

My hand drifts back to his dog tags, gently running over the embossed letters. The metal is cool and smooth beneath my touch. "And these?" I ask softly. "Do you always wear them?"

Cal is quiet for a long moment, his chest rising and falling beneath my palm. I can feel his heartbeat quicken slightly. "Since the day I enlisted," he finally says. "Never took them off."

I notice a shift in his expression, a decision being made. He sits up slightly, his movements slow as he reaches behind his neck. The chain makes a soft metallic sound as he unclasps it. "Until now," he says, voice rough with emotion.

My breath catches as he takes my hand, placing the metal against my palm, closing my fingers around it. The tags are still warm from his body, the metal smooth where it's been worn by years of constant contact with his skin. "Cal..." I start, not sure what to say or what this means.

"I've been carrying these for a decade," he says, eyes never leaving mine. "And with them, who I was, what I've done, what I've seen." His fingers brush my cheek, tender in a way that makes my chest ache. "These tags were a reminder that I couldn't move forward because I couldn't put the past behind me."

He swallows hard. "But I don't need to put it behind me anymore. I just need to put it somewhere safe." His fingers tighten gently around mine. "With someone I trust."

I stare at him, at the way his eyes hold mine like they mean it, at the quiet openness written across his face. "You sure about this?" I whisper, understanding the enormity of what he's offering.

His lips curve slightly, certainty radiating from him. "More sure than I've been about anything in a long time." He leans in, pressing his forehead against mine. "Keep them safe for me, pretty girl."

With shaking hands, I slip the chain over my head, feeling them settle against my chest. They're heavier than I expected, both physically and in what they represent. My fingers close around them, feeling the impression of his name, his blood type, his identity pressed into metal. "I will," I promise, knowing I'm promising so much more than just safeguarding a piece of metal.

His eyes darken as he looks at me, at his tags resting against my skin. Possessiveness and tenderness flash across his face. "Looks better on you anyway," he murmurs.

My fingers start absently tracing another of his tattoos, and then he chuckles. "I've got a lot of ink, Izzy." His lips curve slightly, teasing. "It'll take some time to go through them all."

I flash a grin, the reckless kind of idea already buzzing through me. I lift his forearm to my mouth and lick it.

His entire body goes rigid—eyes wide, muscles locking, breath catching hard in his chest.

I shrug, all fake innocence. "I meant what I said."

My fingers drift lower, trailing down his stomach, tracing another section of ink. "Although, looks like I've got a lot more to explore myself."

His fingers tighten against my side. And I start to wonder if maybe I broke him. Then he exhales, shaking his head, gripping me tight, and flips me onto my side. He tucks me into him, wrapping me up in his arms, pressing his lips to my temple. His body curves around mine, his larger frame enveloping my softer curves, creating a cocoon of warmth and security.

And then he mutters, "Go to sleep before I lose all control and fuck you to sleep instead."

I smile into his chest. And I fall asleep feeling safe.

KEEP HER SAFE, KEEP HER CLOSE, KEEP HER MINE

CAL

Izzy’s tucked against me. Her breathing is even, peaceful—until the softest little snore escapes, and I have to bite back a grin.

She's out. Completely passed out.

And fuck, I love that.

That she trusts me enough to sleep like this. Not just sleep—deep sleep. The kind she hasn't been getting enough of.

Her cheek is pressed to my chest, her hand resting against my stomach, her body tucked so closely to mine that there's not an inch of space between us.

And I⁠—

I feel like the luckiest bastard on the fucking planet.

This is what I want. Her wrapped around me, trusting me with her calm, her safety, her stillness. Letting me be the one who makes her feel like she can finally breathe.

I could lay here forever. Just watching her sleep, feeling her heart beat steady against me, listening to the soft, almost-adorable snores she'd absolutely deny making.

My chest tightens, because even with all of this—this perfect moment, this perfect night—I know it's not perfect.

Because I haven't told her.

Because I'm lying to her.

Because every time she texts Caleb, she's texting me.

My arm tightens around her as if that could somehow fix it. I need to come clean. I need to tell her. But now isn’t the right time, because right now, what she needs is stability. Right now, she needs me. And if keeping this up a little longer means keeping her steady, keeping her feeling safe, then I'll do it.

Even if it eats me alive. Even if every time she calls me Caleb, I feel like the worst kind of bastard. Even if I know that when the truth finally comes out, she might not take it well.

Because it's not going to be as simple as her laughing it off. It's not going to be as simple as her shrugging and saying, “Oh well, that's funny, guess I've been sexting my real-life boyfriend this whole time.”

Because Izzy has never had someone who didn't manipulate her.

And what the fuck am I doing if not manipulating her?

I let out a tight breath, feeling her body against mine, the trust in the way she's curled into me.

She trusts me.

And when I finally tell her the truth, I just have to pray to whatever god is out there that she still will.

I should be asleep.

But I'm wired. Completely, utterly fucking wired. Because all I can think about is her. The way she dropped to her knees in front of me, eyes locked on mine, fingers wrapping around me. The way she dragged her fingers through my release, brought them to her lips, licked me clean like she was savoring me. Like she wanted to watch me come undone. Like she wanted me to fucking ruin her.

And I did. But not enough. Not nearly fucking enough. I shift carefully, reaching for my phone. I flick through my messages, scrolling absently, looking for nothing and everything at the same time.

And then a notification pops up.

An encrypted message. I instantly sit up, careful not to jostle Izzy, my pulse ticking faster. Right on time. I'd made a call a few days ago to someone who could actually help. Someone who owed me a favor.

Ryan Mercer. He’s an old Army buddy that went to work for the NSA after discharge. He's crazy good with computers. Better than me, which was saying something. He also doesn't really like the government, which is funny, considering his career choices. So, he's always been a little wiggly on crossing ethical boundaries.