John opened his eyes, realizing the pressure on top of his shoulder was, in fact, Sophie’s head. Moving was going to be impossible despite the buzzing of the alarm on his wrist. He didn’t move, barely an inch for fear of waking her.

He felt comfortable, natural. As if some point in his life he’d like this to happen maybe without as much clothing separating them. But now? Now he had to plan. And that meant moving.

“Sophie,” he whispered.

She came awake with a start, turning towards him, then quickly moved off of him. “I’m sorry…”

He shook his head, smiling back at her. “It’s fine,” he said. “Really.”

She bit her lip and stared at him. “Are you sure?”

He sat up and sighed. “Look. Yes. You crossed into my space, sure, but you didn’t violate it or me. You put your head on my shoulder because for some reason you thought it was comfortable. Whatever floats your boat.”

“But…?”

He shook his head. “No. If there were things to discuss, we’d discuss them. We’re discussing what happened. And if there were different words to say, I’d say them, sure. You didn’t do anything I wasn’t comfortable with. Okay?”

“You’d tell me?”

He nodded. “Yes. I would.”

She seemed a little calmer; the lines on her face a little less drawn. “Good.” She smiled back at him. “You’re definitely the guy I thought you were. And, for the record, I genuinely think later can’t come soon enough.”

He nodded, smiled ruefully. “Same,” he said. And before he said, or did anything he’d regret later, he left the room.

Sophie couldn’t stay in bed once John had left, gorgeous, and still in his clothing for a reason she probably could figure out if she tried. But thinking about John was not something she could really afford to do right then.

What she needed to do was to get up. So, she stood, stretched and headed towards the bathroom, grabbing her backpack from the spot by the couch where she’d left it, and closed the door behind her. She splashed cold water on her face, changed her clothing, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Raccoon eyes, redder than her favorite lipstick, skin the color of whiteout, random red spots of stress acne everywhere.

She was a mess. Handy makeup kit was reachable in the bag, so she yanked it out and plastered on enough to keep her from looking like she had the chicken pox or was the star of a random horror movie. Once she was satisfied, she left the bathroom, only to see John hanging up the phone in the kitchen. His smile was more welcoming than she deserved.

“Morning.”

She nodded, smiling back at him. “Morning.”

“Just talked to Paul. He’ll see us. “

The sigh of relief was so cliché, but she wasn’t going to fight perfection.. “Oh thank god,” she said, the words more like a prayer than she meant them to be.

He smirked, not a mean one; his eyes twinkled along with it. “Yeah. He’s pretty excited about meeting you. That means he’s going to feed us, which means there’s no big deal about breakfast. I need to go change, so we’ll leave right after, if that’s okay?”

She raised an eyebrow. “There’s coffee, I assume?”

“We can grab some on the way. There’s an A to Z store not far from his house.”

She blinked. Did he know her? “And you expect me to survive until then?”

He shrugged. “There are AZ’s everywhere. Or are you…”

And then he looked at her, and she wondered what he saw. Probably the pure exhaustion in her eyes or the bad makeup job she’d managed in his bathroom. “I mean…do you have tea?”

He nodded, ran his hands through his hair. “Yeah. You like it black, right?”

“Yes. Let me have a cup and I’ll be ready to go.”

“Cuppa, hm? Ok.”

She watched as he pulled everything together and put the kettle on. “Mug, tea, water,” he said, grinning back at her. “I’ll be back in a few.”

Sophie nodded and watched him walk away. It was safe to say that she was mesmerized. Not just by that smile, but by everything she shouldn’t want.

She’d gone to the bathroom one more time, leaving him by himself in the kitchen. He’d washed the cup she’d used, put his jacket on and was ready to leave when there was a knock at the door. He hadn’t been expecting anybody and wondered what was going on.

But all the same, he made his way to the door, looking through the peephole. And his breath caught when he saw two gentleman wearing severe suits on the other side. He didn’t bloody fucking know when he’d ordered suits, or they’d ordered him.

“Mr. DiCenza,” one of them said as he opened the door, proffering a badge in one hand, a paper with a scrawled signature that looked vaguely familiar in the other. “We’re from JAB Security. We have an authorization you gave the Palisades for us to provide security for this address.”

There were sketchy details, but he remembered the amount of time he’d spent trying to scan his signature into an email before sending it back to them. “Yes…yes.”

“We just wanted to let you know that everything is okay, that there’s been no trouble here. We’re here and we’ve been quiet, but, we can put together a more active presence should you think it necessary.”

He shook his head, the implications clear and breath stealing. “No…I’m fine…for now, I think.”

“Whatever you wish, sir.”

He nodded. “I…I’ll be back in a few hours. Can we talk when I get back?”

“Of course, sir,” the gentleman’s voice was more understanding and much more comforting than he’d have expected or wanted otherwise. “Would you like someone to accompany you?”

He swallowed. “No,” he replied once he remembered there were words to be said. “No. It’s…not necessary.” He bit his lip. “I think it’ll be okay.”

“Would you check in with us to make sure you’ve arrived at your destination?”

He bit his lip again, shoved his hands in his pockets and took a breath. “I…I guess. Yes. Thank you.”

And as the gentlemen nodded, closing the door and disappearing to wherever they’d come from, he found himself unable to do very much except close his eyes and breathe.

Jersey drivers were worse than anybody else he’d ever seen, and John could say that because he was one of them. Thankfully he was able to keep control. Barely, holding on by a thread. The drive let him focus on something that wasn’t the raging panic that stole his breath and his coherent thoughts. Somehow, he’d gotten Sophie into her car without trouble, a well-placed smile and a quick walk did well for both of them.

Made sense. They’d see Paul and she’d leave, drive out of his life for good. Because he couldn’t handle this stress, this pressure any more.

“What’s wrong?”

He needed to stretch his legs and he needed to get away.

But instead of telling her that, he pulled off the road, into one of those random service areas that claimed to have a view. What it had was open sky, places to park a car, and not worry about getting overheard.

He pulled into a random spot, unclipped his belt, and got out of the car.

Sophie didn’t know what to do. Not in the least. He’d walked away from the car, clearly needing space. What the fuck was she supposed to do? He obviously didn’t want to talk to her, and the simple question had blown him higher than a volcano. God, she didn’t know what to do.

She needed context, damn it, not a fucking temper tantrum.

She raked her temples with nails that needed to be cut, cut through hair that was way too far from being washed. She was a professional journalist, damn it. And he should be too professional to pull this nonsense.

Should she follow him? Take this excuse to watch his long legs stride in front of her, watch his back muscles flex underneath his coat? Or should she let him stew in private?

She slammed the console with her fists, not ready to deal with the consequences. Not ready to deal with him.

That was when she saw him, standing outside. Looking over the car, not in it. She opened her door, fingered her pockets to make sure she had a key, and then got out.

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live with this,” he said, his voice low enough to force her to strain. “I’ve been holding myself together with string and straw. I can’t live with this, security at my house, at Paul’s…”

“I’m sorry. I...”

None of the words she had worked in the face of the tension he must have been holding. She needed to create an entire language in order to explain the situation. Hers. His. “This is a mess. And I’m sorry you got caught up in it. And me.”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t look like there was an apology on his face, just stood there. And after a moment, they got back in the car and he drove them away. Because as far as she could tell, later was no longer on the table.