Every Night, I See You

"I can go," I repeat, firmer this time, fighting the tremble in my arms as I push my weight upright. "I feel fine now. Completely okay."

Angela hesitates, her eyes flicking between us. She bites the inside of her cheek before speaking. "Having Hannah on the next mission would help a lot, honestly. We're heading into the women's hospital area. It's heavily patrolled, mostly female guards. If Hannah handles surveillance—scans the exterior while I go in and locate the captives—then we exchange signals… it could work. It'd be cleaner. Quieter."

I nod, eyes locked with Angela's. 

"Yes. So I'll go."

But June doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. His voice cuts through the quiet like a blade.

"No. You shouldn't."

He turns to Angela now, jaw tight, voice low. "Would there be any chance I could go instead? I know it's a female facility, but—is there any way?"

"No, you can't…" Angela's voice is calm but edged with undeniable logic. "That place is restricted to women. They'll check IDs at the gate. If yours is flagged—if you're already on the blacklist—it's over. You'd be compromising the whole mission."

June exhales slowly through his nose, nodding. His eyes narrow as he thinks, the lines on his forehead deepening. 

"Right…"

The room falls into a weighted silence. Dust motes drift lazily through the narrow slant of light. I shift, drawing in a steadying breath.

"I want to go," I say, steady and clear. "Please—let me handle this. This time."

June turns toward me, his gaze meeting mine fully. There's something in his eyes—something raw and unguarded. His concern doesn't try to hide anymore; it stands plainly between us.

"Are you sure you can do this?"

I nod, resolute. "Yes. I can."

Then I glance at Angela, grounding myself. 

"I'll follow your direction closely. I won't slip."

Angela returns the look with a subtle nod. 

"I have no doubt you'll do well," she says, the corners of her lips lifting. "You're fast. You've got instinct—and a good sense of signaling. You'll be fine."

For a moment, June says nothing. His jaw clenches, but then he draws in a breath and releases it like surrender.

"All right," he says at last, standing slowly. "I can't insist anymore."

He looks at Angela with quiet trust. 

"Please take care of her while she recovers."

"Of course," Angela replies gently.

"Thanks," he says, almost under his breath. And then he's moving toward the door.

I watch him go—tall frame, shoulders squared, that familiar tension in his back. The door creaks open… and closes behind him with a quiet finality.

Gone.

My chest feels oddly hollow for a second, though I don't quite know why.

"Thank you, Angela," I say, turning to her, my voice soft but sincere. "For letting me take this on. And for… looking out for me."

Angela offers a small, kind smile. 

"Of course. It's what we're all here for."

Then she tilts her head slightly, more casual now. 

"And don't let June get to you too much. He's just worried. That's all."

I let out a breath—half a sigh, half a laugh. 

"I know, but…"

But what? I don't finish the thought, because I don't even know how to.

Angela smirks, folding her arms loosely. 

"I think…" she says with a glint in her eye, "he has a thing for you."

My heart skips. A small jolt runs through my chest as I blink at her.

"He has… what?"

Angela laughs—low and knowing. 

"Oh, come on. You didn't notice? I think he likes you," Angela says, casually but with certainty. "He acts differently around you."

I blink, caught off guard—but the moment I let myself think about it, I know she's right.

He does act differently with me.

Angela leans back slightly, arms still crossed, studying my face as if gauging how far she can go. 

"He's usually really straightforward with women. Open. Relaxed. He's comfortable with everyone—me, the others in the Society, even the new recruits. We've all worked with him for years rescuing people from trafficking. He's focused, sure, but warm. But with you…" She tilts her head, smirking. "He's more… chic, I guess?"

She laughs softly, shaking her head. 

"That kind of quiet, intense thing? The way he stands just a little straighter around you, how his voice lowers when he talks to you—like he's suddenly formal. He's clearly conscious of you. He thinks of you differently."

I nod slowly, my fingers resting on the edge of the blanket. It's not like I haven't noticed.

It's been there all along—in the way he looks at me, lingering just a second longer than he should. In the restraint, the guarded care in his words. And I felt it more because I wasn't just observing him…

I liked him too.

That's why I was always so aware of his presence. Why did my heart always beat a little faster when he entered the room? Why I caught myself memorizing the lines of his face when he wasn't looking.

Angela's voice softens, dipping into something more thoughtful. "Well, I'm actually glad—happy, really—that love has come to June. He's been so… focused. For so long. The missions, the rescues, the logistics. He gave up a normal life to serve the Society. He never asked for anything back. And now…" She smiles at me, something gentle flickering in her eyes. "Now, he cares for you."

She chuckles. 

"Isn't that a good change for him?"

I smile—quiet and full. The warmth unfurls in my chest, delicate and unspoken.

Through the slightly opened window, snow drifts silently from the night sky, swirling like soft ash under the weight of winter. The city beyond is cloaked in quiet darkness—its lights dim, distant, flickering like forgotten stars.

Inside the room, the only glow comes from a single lantern on the bedside table. Its golden light pools gently across the old wood floor, casting long shadows that dance with the slow rhythm of breathing.

Julian sits slouched in a worn chair near the wall, a book resting lightly in his hands. The pages are open, but his attention has already begun to wander. He lowers the book just enough to glance over the edge of it—and that's when he sees her.

Grace lies still on the bed, her head swathed in soft white bandages. A thin hose snakes from beneath her nose, looping over her cheeks. Her chest rises in shallow, steady breaths.

And then—barely noticeable at first—her lips curl, ever so slightly.

A smile.

Grace is smiling.

Julian straightens, drawn in as if by gravity. He cannot look away. The sight of that quiet, serene curve on her mouth holds him captive. 

She looks… peaceful. 

And in that moment, Julian feels something stir within him. Something fragile and reverent.

She's happy. Wherever she is, right now—she's happy.

The book slides forgotten onto his lap as he leans forward, staring at her with soft disbelief. He drinks in the smile as if it might vanish if he blinks too hard.

Then, the door creaks open.

A soft whoosh of cold air follows Monica into the room. She's wearing a white gown, crisp and quiet. Her hair is loosely tied back, and her expression is one of tired warmth.

Julian rises to his feet immediately, instinctively.

He doesn't need to ask. He knows—by the quiet grace of her presence, by the way her gaze falls on Grace with immediate softness—this woman is her mother.

So she works here... as a doctor, Julian thinks, his mind assembling the pieces even as his heart continues to hover over Grace.

"You can sit," Monica says gently, a kind grin curving her lips.

"No, no, ma'am, you can sit," Julian says quickly, stepping back from the chair.

But Monica only chuckles lightly and moves to the chair opposite him, settling beside Grace with a practiced ease. She rests a hand gently on Grace's arm, and then she lifts her eyes to meet Julian's.

There's calmness in her gaze—steady, composed, but curious.

"So, you must be…"

Julian nods, suddenly aware of how long it's been since he last spoke aloud.

"Hi… I'm sorry for the late introduction," he says, his voice lower than usual, edged with reverence. "My name is Julian Lenter. I'm Grace's…"

He doesn't know what to say.

The words don't come—not because there aren't any, but because none of them feel right. They'd all fall short.

Monica seems to understand. She offers a gentle smile, the kind born from years of knowing when silence speaks louder than speech.

"I heard from my daughter about you," she says softly, not looking at him directly at first. "You're the one she likes. And her professor at the same time, right?"

Julian's heart knocks once against his ribs, firm and uninvited. He lifts his eyes to her slowly and nods.

"Yes," he says, barely above a whisper. "I am."

Monica doesn't press. There's a softness in her restraint, a maternal wisdom in her knowing when to pause. She doesn't want to make him shrink beneath her gaze or chase him back behind polite distance.

Instead, she just says, "Thank you. For coming to see my daughter at the hospital."

Julian glances at Grace, his throat tightening. The sight of her—so still, bandaged, a quiet machine breathing in and out for her—lands again like a sharp weight in his chest. He dips his head, as if the words he wants to say might find their way through humility.

"No, of course," he murmurs. "I'm just…" His voice cracks faintly. "I'm just praying she wakes up."