Page 22 of Beyond Protection
"And yet here you are."
"Yeah. Here I am."
My phone buzzed.
Both of us froze.
I pulled it out—unknown number.
My hands started shaking before I opened it.
The man you were photographed with today—his proximity causes you visible stress. I documented elevated tension patterns, increased cortisol markers evident in facial micro-expressions. Removing damaging elements is part of the preservation protocol.
"Fuck." I showed him the screen.
A second message arrived while he was reading.
He touches you like you're ordinary. You're not. You're irreplaceable. I won't let him damage you further.
Eamon's jaw locked. "They saw us this morning."
"They think you're the threat."
He was already moving, checking windows and locks. "Which means they'll try to eliminate me."
"Eamon—"
"Not now. Right now, I need to make sure they can't get close enough to implement their preservation protocol." He stopped. Looked at me. "You stay inside. You don't go near windows. You don't open the door for anyone except family. Understood?"
"They're going to come after you."
"I know."
"Because of me."
He moved closer. "And I'm staying anyway. That's what protection means. Not keeping you from danger. Keeping you company through it."
He put his hands on my shoulders. Heavy. Warm. Steadying. "Mac. Listen to me. This is what they do. They identify threats to their narrative and try to eliminate them. I knew taking this job meant making myself a target. I did the proper preparations for that."
"You can't prepare for someone who's been watching me for eighteen months."
"Yes, I can. Because that's my job." His hands tightened on my shoulders. "But I need you to trust me. Please follow my instructions. Because if something happens—if they move against either of us—I can't protect you and fight you at the same time."
His eyes were steady and sure.
My mouth opened, ready to deflect with a joke. Or perform gratitude with the right amount of self-deprecation.
His thumbs moved slightly—a small circle of pressure against my collarbone through the hoodie.
Not strategic or tactical.
Comfort. Freely given.
My breath caught.
He wasn't asking for anything. Wasn't waiting for me to reciprocate or reassure him or act out stability so he'd feel better about protecting me. He was giving—this small gesture of warmth and steadiness.
I didn't know what to do with it.
