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・゚° ☾ ✧ △ 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕, her words sinking into the air between them like a weight neither of them could move. 'It’s just a matter of time…' He’d heard variations of it before, victims staring down the barrel of inevitability, convinced the wolves would always win. But hearing it now — from her, so small and raw, glass-voiced and hollowed out by grief — it cut deeper than he expected.
He thought of Sawyer. Of the way her tiny chest rose and fell when she slept against his arm, unknowing, untouched by the sharp edges of the world. He thought about what would happen if someday she were the one hiding behind locked doors, whispering about inevitability with her lips cracked dry from fear. The thought left a pit in his stomach, something heavy and merciless. He would never want someone to look at his daughter and treat her as a lost cause.
The safe house was silent around them, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the whisper of air through the vents, the soft scrape of his boots on the tile floor — small details that should have been comforting but only made him hyper-aware of the fragility of the space. Dust motes floated in the streaks of lamplight, and the air smelled faintly of paint and the sterile tang of antiseptic. Everything was in place, neutral, waiting. Waiting for a disruption.
Holder dragged a hand over his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble. His instinct was to push back hard, to set her straight the way he had with other witnesses — firm lines, no softness, no cracks in the wall he built around them. But looking at Isabella Moretti, he knew the usual tactics would only break her further. And breaking her wasn’t an option. Not when she was the last living thread to unravel Moretti’s murder and the Farinellis’ hold. Not when she was a twenty-something kid who had already lost everything.
❛ You don’t get to decide that ❜. Holder said finally, his voice low but steady. He stepped closer, not enough to crowd her, but enough to ground the space with his presence. ❛ They want you to believe it’s only a matter of time. That’s how men like them win — fear first, bullets second. But the fact you’re standing here, breathing, proves they’re not as untouchable as they think ❜.
He let the silence stretch for a moment, the rhythm of his own breathing syncing with the tension humming off her frame. He noted the slight tremor in her shoulders, the way her knuckles were pale from gripping her own arms, the hollow edge in her wide eyes. She was poised for collapse, but she was still standing. Barely. That counted.
❛ Look, I won’t lie to you. This isn’t clean. It isn’t easy. And I can’t promise you a life that looks anything like the one you had before. But I can promise this — as long as you’re in my care, they don’t touch you. Not through that door, not in this house, not while I’m still standing ❜. Holder’s gaze flicked to the blinds he’d closed earlier, each one a reminder of the barricade he was building between her and the outside.
The faint glow of streetlights cut through the slats in stripes across the floor, painting the walls in soft shadows. He thought of the Farinelli case files stacked on his desk back at the precinct, of names scrawled in ink that led nowhere, of bodies left in alleys like discarded notes. He thought of how close he’d already come, too close, and how his boss had shoved him onto this assignment partly to save his neck.
Now, looking at Isabella, he wondered if it wasn’t just about saving his life. Maybe it was about giving him something to hold on to — something worth protecting with more than procedure. ❛ You’re not alone in this. You may feel like it — hell, I’d be worried if you didn’t. But you’ve got me. And I don’t walk away. Not from a case, not from someone depending on me ❜.
He set his hand on the duffel at his side, fingers brushing over the battered book she’d noticed, though he didn’t realize it. Its spine was worn, edges fraying, a small human tether in a room meant for survival. His other hand hovered at his hip, an unconscious habit born of too many years carrying steel.
❛ So no, you don’t get to send me packing. You’re stuck with me ❜. His mouth almost curved, but stopped short of a smile. ❛ And until the day I hand you over in that courtroom, the Farinellis are going to have to crawl through me to get to you. ❜.
Holder’s gaze swept the room again, cataloging every detail like muscle memory. The front door lock clicked reassuringly under his fingers, the deadbolt secure. Windows—single pane at the front, reinforced at the back—blinked faintly in the lamplight, edges catching shadows. He traced the perimeter with his eyes, noting the low dresser near the living room wall, the barely-there gap under the curtains, the corners where someone could slip by unseen if they weren’t careful.
He moved to the kitchen, testing cabinets and drawers with the soft click of fingertips, noting the pantry’s weak hinge, the dull thump of the refrigerator, the faint draft under the back door. Tiny things, but in a world where a step too loud could cost a life, nothing was insignificant.
The room smelled faintly of paint, faintly of the faint residue of cleaned surfaces, sterile and neutral—but Holder added the smell of something human, moving through the space, adjusting it. He pulled out a small thermos of coffee from his bag, a habit he’d kept from stakeouts. The warmth radiated through the metal, subtle but grounding. He set it on the counter, a quiet marker that someone had been there, alive, human.
❛ Rules ❜. he said finally, not looking at her, but knowing she’d hear. ❛ You follow them, you live. You don’t, you get both of us killed. It’s that simple. But it doesn’t mean you’re caged. You move when I say it’s safe. You eat when I say it’s safe. You sleep when I say it’s safe. I can’t promise comfort… only that you walk out breathing ❜.
Holder returned to the living room, taking the armchair nearest the door. His eyes flicked to the faint signs of life outside—the tipped bicycle leaning against the neighbor’s fence, the old man’s faint shadow at his window, the curl of smoke from a passing chimney. Normal, ordinary, fragile. Everything worth defending.
He watched Isabella out of the corner of his eye. Her arms were still crossed, but slightly less rigid now. Tiny, almost imperceptible signs of life, of cautious breathing. He noted the crease in her knuckles, the faint tremor of her shoulders, the way her eyes darted toward the corners of the room instead of at him. Awareness, vigilance, survival instinct intact. Good.
❛ You’re not a ghost here ❜. he said finally, voice low, even, carrying the weight of his own experience without softness, without harshness. ❛ You breathe, you move, you exist. I don’t care about their money, their threats, or their bullets. You exist, and I protect that. Nothing else matters ❜.
He leaned back slightly, scanning the blinds, the furniture, the corners. Every detail cataloged. Every risk accounted for. And beneath it all, the quiet thread of warmth — subtle, unspoken — that came from knowing he could make a difference. That at least tonight, in this small, painted, silent house, she would not be alone.