Page 26 of The Maverick

And that’s when he knew—she was still hiding something. Not about Charles. Not about the stalker. Something older. Deeper.

“You going to tell me what you’re holding back?” he asked.

Her breath caught. He waited. But she didn’t answer. Hawke didn’t push. He just leaned in, dropped his forehead to hers, and stayed there—close, steady, present.

“I’ve got you, Vanessa,” he murmured.

She didn’t reply, but she didn’t move away either. And for now, that was enough.

7

VANESSA

Vanessa didn’t realize when it happened—when the hum of anxiety in her chest dropped to something quieter. When the itch to keep moving—the fight-or-flight that had gripped her since the letter—stopped buzzing in her bones. Maybe it was the way Hawke disappeared into task mode without barking orders. Maybe it was the smell of coffee and cedarwood in the air, or the soft creak of old floors beneath her bare feet.

But something shifted.

She stood in front of the stove, barefoot in a pair of leggings, an oversized thermal Henley that was very much his. She had rolled up the sleeves three times, exposing her forearms. The scent of bacon filled the cabin. She had already scrambled the eggs. Toast in the warmer. She hadn’t asked. He hadn’t told her to. She’d just done it.

Because she needed to do something normal. Something that wasn’t running or flinching or pretending she wasn’t on edge. So she cooked. Not for him. Not really. But if he ate, fine. If he didn’t, whatever, but she still set two plates on the table.

When Hawke came in from the side porch—boots off, shirt damp from morning mist and probably another perimeter check—he said nothing. He took the plate she slid toward him, sat, and dug in.

Like it had always been this way.

“How long are you going to keep pretending you don’t like when I do domestic things?” she asked, pouring herself another cup of coffee.

“I’m not pretending,” he said without looking up. “I like it.”

She paused mid-pour. “Seriously?”

He gave her a side glance. “You think I kept a functioning kitchen just for show?”

“I thought it was more of a military habit. Tactical nourishment.”

His mouth curved. “Tactical bacon?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. He just kept eating, calm and quiet, like the mountain man he was. Like they hadn’t had each other stripped and gasping twenty-four hours ago. Like the entire world hadn’t gone off the rails the second she picked up that damn letter.

Vanessa dropped into the chair across from him and rested her chin on one hand.

“You’re very annoying, you know that?”

“I do.”

“I mean, the brooding and the silence and the way you make me want to punch you and climb your frame at the same time…”

The corners of his lips lifted slightly, and she saw the flicker of something darker in his eyes.

Don’t go there, Nessa. Not now.

She picked up a slice of bacon and tore into it, chewing like it had personally offended her.

Hawke didn’t push; he never did. He just let her unravel at her own pace, which was more dangerous than if he’d demandedanswers. Because silence gave her room to think. And thinking led to remembering, and remembering was dangerous.

He finished eating before she did and rose to rinse his plate, moving with the kind of quiet confidence that made everything in her tighten. He didn’t posture. Didn’t strut. Just operated like a man who knew how to move in his own space—and could rearrange yours if needed.

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