The hospital was quieter than Jessel expected in the early morning. Two days had passed since the warehouse incident, and she had hardly moved from Thalassa's bedside. No one had called. No one had tried to reach her. The world outside seemed suspended, leaving her alone with monitors' beeps and the faint scent of antiseptic.
Jessel had kept Thalassa safe. Carefully adjusted blankets, changed dressings, refilled water, coaxed her to sip, whispered reassurances she barely understood herself. The girl had been unconscious, fragile, pale as porcelain—and now she stirred, eyes fluttering open like a hesitant sunrise.
"Thalassa?" Jessel whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair from the girl's forehead.
The girl's eyes blinked, hazy at first, then sharpened. Recognition came slowly. Relief softened her features, but there was an unmistakable wariness.
"Who… are you?" Thalassa croaked, voice weak but clear.
Jessel forced a small, tired smile. "I'm Jessel. I'm… someone you can trust."
For a moment, Thalassa's gaze flicked toward the door as if expecting someone to burst in and undo that trust. Jessel understood. She herself had been trained to expect danger at every turn.
By the second day, the tension had eased slightly. Thalassa could sit upright, her head bandaged but stable. She spoke more, asked questions, and slowly, a bond formed. Whispered stories, cautious laughter, shared silences. Jessel found herself protecting Thalassa not just out of duty, but from something sharper—something she didn't yet have words for.
On the third morning, the phone in her bag vibrated sharply. The number was unknown, but the voice on the line made her heart clench.
"Jessel," Castiel said, low, commanding, though there was an edge of something—concern, perhaps worry. "Where are you?"
"I'm at the hospital," she replied carefully.
"I need you at the safe house. Bring Thalassa. You can't risk leaving her."
Jessel's breath caught. The safe house. She hadn't seen it before. Not even glimpsed its edges, though Castiel had hinted at its isolation. But she didn't argue. She never did. She ended the call and prepared to move.
The journey was quiet. Thalassa sat beside her, silent but alert, eyes scanning every corner of the car as though she could already sense the walls of the fortress awaiting them. Jessel kept her own thoughts controlled, hands steady on the wheel, mind mapping every detail of their surroundings.
When they arrived, the safe house rose from the trees like a dark jewel. Hidden in the center of dense woods, it was grand without being ostentatious, modern without losing its edge. Tall stone walls, cameras hidden in plain sight, guards stationed like statues. The driveways were lined with soft lighting, guiding them to a secure underground parking area. Jessel's breath hitched slightly; it wasn't just a house. It was a fortress, a command center for someone used to living in shadows.
Inside, the house was just as imposing. Polished stone floors reflected the subdued lighting. Velvet curtains softened the edges, but the room's elegance felt cold, controlled. Security monitors lined one wall—a web of eyes watching every inch. Jessel's pulse quickened as she realized how carefully every detail had been considered: escape routes, defense points, hidden alarms. And yet, there was intimacy too: muted paintings, soft rugs, warm light that could almost convince someone this was home. Almost.
Thalassa was settled in a guest room. Jessel checked the door's lock twice. Then, finally, she allowed herself a moment to breathe.
That night, after tending to Thalassa's comfort and seeing her asleep with her forehead cool and bandages secure, Jessel slipped into the lounge. The bar beckoned like a dark promise. She poured herself a generous measure of whiskey, the amber liquid shaking slightly in the glass. The burn down her throat was welcome. It was warmth, it was release, it was control, somehow.
Hours passed. She drank more than she intended. The room swayed gently; her thoughts grew louder. Every gunshot, every siren, every whispered threat from the past week rose in her mind, pressing down. She laughed softly, bitterly, taking another sip. She wasn't drunk—just loose, edges softened. Vulnerable.
The sound of the door shutting echoed, and she froze.
"Impressive," a familiar deep voice said from the shadows.
Castiel. Drunk. His movements were slower, less precise, but there was no less danger in the heat of his gaze. His eyes, sharp and green as a storm-tossed sea, locked onto hers.
"You?" she asked, voice soft, unsteady.
He stepped closer, and she could smell the sharp tang of whiskey and rain from earlier. "I could ask the same." His lips quirked in a hint of a smirk, one she had never been allowed to see before. Vulnerable Castiel. Dangerous and human.
"You should leave," she said, voice firmer than she felt.
"I should?" He laughed low, the sound rough in his throat. "Or you should stop drinking alone?"
They circled each other like predators, like something dangerous simmering just beneath the surface. Castiel's hand brushed hers accidentally—or maybe intentionally—and she felt a spark she had tried to ignore for weeks.
"Stop," she whispered, breath catching.
"Stop what?" He leaned close, voice barely audible. "Hiding from me?"
Her laugh trembled, soft and uncertain. "I'm not hiding… just surviving."
"Not the same thing," he murmured, closing the distance. The air between them felt heavier, charged. Their bodies were too close. Too warm.
Her pulse spiked. He smelled of rain, whiskey, and something dark—danger and desire intertwined.
Jessel swayed slightly, and he caught her, steadying her effortlessly. Their faces hovered inches apart, the tension raw. She could see it in his eyes: control slipping, restraint fraying.
And then, the alcohol, the closeness, the exhaustion of weeks spent under threat, made her reckless.
She pressed forward. A fleeting, impulsive brush of lips. His shock registered for a heartbeat. Then Castiel's mouth captured hers with quiet force, slow and testing, letting the emotions they had both bottled for weeks spill over.
The bar, the lounge, the safe house—all of it melted around them. There was only this: heat, proximity, breath mingling, hands tracing uncertain paths.
It was messy. It was urgent. It was drunk honesty. And for the first time, Jessel didn't care about consequences.
Hours later, they staggered toward Castiel's private quarters, still locked in the gravity of each other. The bedroom was lavish but understated, heavy curtains keeping the outside world at bay. Candles burned low, spilling shadows across walls lined with books and artifacts that spoke of careful power.
They collapsed onto the bed, limbs tangled, hearts racing, but not for long—sleep claimed them quickly, drunk and exhausted, bodies warm against each other.
For the first time, Jessel allowed herself to forget—if only for a few hours—about Lucas, the threats, the games Castiel played, the endless danger.
Here, in the center of the safe house, with Castiel dangerously close, drinking the same bitter truths she had, she felt… almost safe. Almost human.
And for the first time, the dark world outside—the sirens, the guns, the men who would kill to get to them—didn't matter.
Because right now, it was just them. And the night was theirs.