The Interlude
Aaliyah
The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city filtering through the heavy curtains. Aaliyah lay on the plush bed, staring up at the ceiling, the events of the night replaying in her mind like a film reel. She hadn’t turned off the bedside lamp; the thought of lying in complete darkness left too much room for her thoughts to spiral.
Not that the warm glow of the lamp was doing much to stop them.
Her pulse had finally slowed after their abrupt exit from the club, but her chest still felt tight. Not from fear—at least, not entirely. Cruz’s hand had stayed on her waist the entire walk back, her grip firm and steady, a silent reassurance that no matter what, she wouldn’t let go. Aaliyah’s side still burned where it’d been held by Cruz.
Her protector. Her shadow. Her… what?
Aaliyah pressed a hand to her chest, trying to still the sudden ache there. She didn’t know what to call the way she felt about Cruz. It wasn’t just gratitude, though that was certainly part of it. Cruz had saved her life more times than she could count in the short time they’d been on the run. But it was more than that. It was the way Cruz saw her—not as a pawn to be used or a doll to be admired, but as a person. A woman with her own thoughts, her own choices, her own worth.
It was the way Cruz let her be herself. No judgment, no expectations, just… space. Space to breathe, to explore, to figure out who she really was outside of the suffocating walls of her father’s estate and the shadow of an arranged marriage.
Her stomach twisted as she thought about Ehsan. His cold glare, rough hands. Their engagement had been a transaction, a merger of families and power. She’d been a bargaining chip, a token to be traded. The thought of it made her chest tighten all over again, this time with a bitter edge.
But now she was free. Free to dance in clubs, free to wander museums, free to stand on the edge of a new life with someone who—
Aaliyah bit her lip, her cheeks heating. She couldn’t go there. Couldn’t let herself think about Cruz that way. It was too complicated, too dangerous. And yet, no matter how hard she tried to push the thoughts away, they kept circling back.
Cruz was strong. Steady. Sharp in every way that mattered. She moved through the world like a blade—precise, deadly, and unyielding. And yet, there were cracks in her armor, moments where Aaliyah caught glimpses of the woman beneath the sharp edges. Like tonight, when Cruz had danced with her, her hands warm and sure against Aaliyah’s waist. When she’d let herself smile, soft and fleeting but real.
Aaliyah turned onto her side, curling into the blankets as her thoughts spiraled further. She hadn’t felt this way about anyone before—not even the women she’d snuck off with in the rare moments she’d been able to slip away from her father’s watchful eye. Those encounters had been fleeting, rushed, stolen moments of freedom. But this… this was different. This wasn’t just attraction. It was a pull, a gravitational force that kept drawing her closer to Cruz, no matter how much she tried to keep her distance.
She liked her.
Aaliyah let out a shaky breath, the weight of the realization settling over her. She liked Cruz—her sharp wit, her dry humor, her quiet strength. She liked the way Cruz’s eyes softened when she thought no one was watching, the way her hands hovered protectively near Aaliyah without ever feeling overbearing. She liked the way Cruz let her feel safe but never stifled.
And that scared her.
Because Cruz wasn’t just a bodyguard or a protector. She was something Aaliyah couldn’t afford to lose. And yet, here she was, lying in bed and thinking about her in ways that made her chest ache and her cheeks flush.
Aaliyah rolled onto her back again, staring up at the ceiling. “Get a grip,” she muttered to herself, though the words lacked conviction.
Her mind drifted to the club again—to the moment Cruz had stepped between her and the drunk man, her body tense and unyielding, her voice calm but firm. Cruz had handled it so effortlessly, so instinctively, as if protecting Aaliyah was second nature to her. But it wasn’t just the way Cruz shielded her that had stuck in Aaliyah’s mind—it was the way Cruz had looked at her afterward. The quiet tension in her jaw, the flicker of something in her dark eyes that Aaliyah couldn’t quite name.
She closed her eyes, letting the memory linger for just a moment longer. Cruz’s hand on her waist, steady and unrelenting. The warmth of her palm, the faint press of her calluses against Aaliyah’s skin.
No one had ever made her feel like this before. Safe, yes. Seen, yes. But also something more—something she couldn’t name yet but felt in every part of her.
“Cruz,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet room.
The name lingered on her lips, soft and full of meaning. Aaliyah didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, didn’t know how long they could keep running or how this fragile bubble of freedom would last. But in this moment, she was grateful. Grateful for the escape, for the chance to be herself, and, most of all, for Cruz.
Because with Cruz, she didn’t feel like a pawn or a prisoner. She felt like herself.
And she didn’t want to lose that.
Cruz
Cruz sat on the couch, her body tense, her gaze fixed on the knife she was twirling between her fingers. The motion was fluid, almost lazy, but there was a precision to it—a subconscious reminder of who she was and what she was capable of. The blade caught the light with each rotation, a flicker of silver in the dim room.
It was easier to focus on the knife than on the tangle of thoughts clawing at the edges of her mind.
Cruz exhaled slowly, her thumb brushing over the hilt as the knife spun in her hand. She’d abandoned everything for this—her job, her mission, her life as she knew it. When Aaliyah had run from the altar, Cruz could have done what was expected: brought her back, fulfilled the terms of her contract, and gone on with her life.
But she hadn’t.
Even when Aaliyah had been nothing more than a frightened woman in a wedding dress, something in Cruz had recognized her importance. Not just as a person to protect, but as someone who mattered in ways Cruz couldn’t yet explain. It wasn’t just Aaliyah’s desperation or the way she looked at Cruz with those wide, trusting eyes. It was something deeper, something instinctive, as though Cruz had known—deep down—that Aaliyah was worth the risk.
And so, she’d walked away from her orders, from everything she’d ever been taught about loyalty and duty. It was a betrayal of the mission, of the principles she’d built her life around. And yet, Cruz couldn’t bring herself to regret it.
The knife twirled faster in her hand, a blur of motion as her thoughts drifted to darker places. Her past had taught her the cost of vulnerability, of letting people in. Edgar had been a master at exploiting those cracks, breaking her down piece by piece until she’d barely recognized herself. Cruz had rebuilt herself from the ashes of that life, first as a Marine and then as a CIA operative. She’d learned to be sharp, to be useful, to be unyielding.
But Aaliyah was unraveling her. Every glance, every smile, every damn touch left Cruz more exposed than she wanted to admit. She hated it. She craved it. She didn’t know how to reconcile the two.
Her hand stilled, the knife’s edge catching the light as she stared at it. Protecting Aaliyah was straightforward. It was what she knew, what she was good at. But the growing pull she felt toward her charge was something else entirely. It blurred the lines Cruz had spent years carefully drawing around herself, lines meant to keep her focused, safe, and unattached.
She thought about tonight—about the way Aaliyah had pulled her onto the dance floor, her hands warm and insistent against Cruz’s waist. Cruz had resisted, at first, but she’d let herself be drawn in, let herself enjoy the closeness and the music, even if only for a moment. That moment had been enough to crack something open, a fault line in the armor Cruz had spent years perfecting.
It scared her. Not because she didn’t want it, but because she did.
Cruz set the knife down on the table, leaning back against the couch with a heavy sigh. She couldn’t afford to let this spiral. Aaliyah needed her to be clear-headed, focused. She was Aaliyah’s protector, nothing more. And yet, that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Aaliyah had become more than an assignment, more than a responsibility. She was… Cruz clenched her jaw, refusing to let herself finish the thought.
She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing herself to compartmentalize. She’d done it a thousand times before. She could do it now.
But the truth was, she didn’t want to. Not entirely.
Cruz let her hands fall to her lap, her fingers tracing the faint nicks and calluses on her palms. She needed a distraction, something productive, something that would keep her grounded. Her mind turned to Aaliyah, to the way she’d thrown herself into their training sessions with a determination that Cruz couldn’t help but admire. Aaliyah wanted to learn, wanted to take control of her own safety. Cruz could see how much it meant to her.
And maybe, selfishly, Cruz liked having the excuse to spend time with her.
Hand-to-hand combat. The idea came together quickly in her mind, sharp and practical. Aaliyah needed to know how to defend herself if things got close and messy, if a weapon wasn’t an option. Cruz could teach her that—teach her how to use her size and speed, how to leverage an opponent’s momentum against them.
It was a logical next step. Necessary, even. But the thought of being close to Aaliyah, of guiding her movements, of feeling the warmth of her skin beneath Cruz’s hands… Cruz exhaled sharply, shaking her head.
This wasn’t about that. It couldn’t be. Teaching Aaliyah hand-to-hand combat was about keeping her safe, nothing more.
Still, the idea lingered, a faint buzz of anticipation beneath the surface. Cruz told herself it was because she wanted Aaliyah to feel confident, to feel capable. But deep down, she knew there was more to it than that. She wanted to see Aaliyah light up when she mastered a new skill, wanted to hear her laugh when Cruz teased her for overthinking a move. She wanted an excuse to be close without overstepping the boundaries she was desperately trying to maintain.
“Focus,” Cruz muttered to herself, her voice sharp in the stillness. She picked up the knife again, spinning it between her fingers in a deliberate rhythm. The motion was soothing, grounding. It reminded her of who she was, of what she was here to do.
But as her gaze flicked to the closed door of Aaliyah’s room, a quiet thought settled in the back of her mind—a dangerous, persistent thought she couldn’t shake.
What if protecting Aaliyah wasn’t just about keeping her safe? What if it was about giving her something she hadn’t realized she needed?
And what if, in doing so, Cruz found something she hadn’t realized she needed either?