Page 23 of Close Protection

A small comfort, but better than nothing. "Supply status?"

"On schedule for 0800. Northern approach, as discussed." Morgan paused, and Julia could almost see her partner's expression—that mix of concern and exasperation she reserved for Julia's most stubborn moments. "How's the doctor holding up?"

Julia glanced toward the bathroom door, steam escaping from the imperfect seal at its base. "Adapting."

"That's not an answer."

"It's all you're getting."

Morgan sighed, the sound crackling through the connection. "Julia, I know this isn't standard procedure, but if there's something I should?—"

"There isn't," Julia cut her off, perhaps too sharply. "Focus on the leak. We'll handle things here."

A long pause followed. "Okay," Morgan said finally. "But remember what Hayes used to say?—"

"'The witness isn't the mission; the testimony is.'" Julia quoted their former training officer automatically.

"Yeah. Don't lose sight of that."

The call ended, leaving Julia with the unsettling feeling that Morgan suspected morethan she should. Her partner was perceptive, particularly when it came to Julia's rare departures from protocol. And while there was nothing explicitly unprofessional in her current handling of the situation, the underlying current between her and Ivy was a complication she couldn't fully deny.

The shower stopped. Julia busied herself with arranging the sleeping area on the sofa, unfolding the emergency blanket from her pack with sharp, efficient movements. She'd slept in far worse conditions during her military service. A worn sofa in a secure cabin was practically luxury compared to desert outposts and tactical positions.

The bathroom door opened on a cloud of steam. Ivy emerged wrapped in Julia's clothes, the department t-shirt hanging loose on her smaller frame, the running shorts barely visible beneath its hem. Her hair was damp, cheeks flushed from the hot water, feet bare against the cabin's wooden floor. The transformation from polished professional to this softer version was jarring in its intimacy.

Their eyes met across the room, and for a moment, neither spoke. Something passedbetween them—recognition, memory, possibility—before Julia deliberately broke the connection.

"Hot water hold out?" she asked, her voice deliberately casual.

"Barely." Ivy tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear, a gesture so unconsciously vulnerable it made Julia's chest tighten. "But it felt like heaven after the day we've had."

Julia nodded, focusing on adjusting the blanket rather than looking at Ivy directly. "You should get some rest. Tomorrow will be about establishing proper security protocols and communication procedures."

"Always the professional." Ivy's tone held something unreadable—not quite mockery, not quite admiration. She moved toward the bedroom door, then paused, one hand on the frame. "The offer stands, you know. That couch looks medieval, and the bed is more than large enough."

The suggestion landed between them like a live grenade—dangerous, volatile, impossible to ignore but hazardous to approach. Julia kept her expression neutral through years of practiced discipline.

"That wouldn't be appropriate," she said, each word measured.

"Appropriate," Ivy repeated, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. "Is that what we're calling professional distance now?"

"It's what's necessary." Julia met her gaze directly, willing Ivy to understand what she couldn't fully articulate. "Whatever happened between us before is irrelevant to our current situation."

"Irrelevant." Ivy's smile didn't reach her eyes. "You're very good at that, aren't you? Compartmentalizing. Deciding what matters and what doesn't."

The observation hit closer to home than Julia cared to admit. "It's kept me alive in situations where emotions would have been a liability."

"And is that what I am now? A potential liability?"

The question hung between them, raw and honest in a way their previous exchanges hadn't been. Julia found herself unable to summon the automatic denial that protocol demanded. Because the truth was more complicated than professional distance could accommodate.

"Get some rest, Ivy," she said finally, the use of her first name a small concession to the reality they both acknowledged but couldn't address.

Something in Ivy's expression softened at the sound of her name. She nodded once, then disappeared into the bedroom without another word, the door closing with a quiet finality that seemed to echo in the small space.

Julia exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders momentarily unbearable. Outside, the wind had picked up, branches scraping against the metal roof like skeletal fingers. The sound matched the unease crawling up her spine. Knox's people were good—former military and specialized law enforcement, according to her intelligence. They wouldn't give up because of a temporary setback.

She moved to the woodstove, adding another log to maintain the heat through the night. The fire's glow cast dancing shadows across the cabin walls, across the photographs of women who had built the Phoenix Ridge Police Department into what it was today. Julia wondered briefly what they would make of her current situation:trapped between duty and desire, between professional obligation and personal complication.

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