The 3:17 Compromise:
A Midnight Reckoning
Sometimes, the most dangerous pattern is the one we create ourselves—
the comfortable distance we maintain from what we truly want, the careful dance around feelings too complex to name.
Dar pulled the blanket higher, clutching its edges like a lifeline, wrapping herself tightly as though its cocoon could shield her from the thought that had circled her mind since Callum walked out her door. His voice was still there, low and steady, echoing between her ears. Call me. Anytime.
She exhaled through her nose, sharp and bitter, like she could force the weight of his words out with her breath. Easy for him to say, she thought, her jaw tightening. Easy for him to offer.
Her eyes flicked toward the phone on the nightstand, its screen black and still. The room around her was dark except for the faint glow of a streetlamp sneaking through the edges of her curtains. She shifted her head just enough to glance at the clock glowing faintly across the room—0235. Her stomach clenched.
What if three a.m. rolled around and the walls started closing in? What if I fumbled for my phone in the dark and actually called him? What would I even say?
The imagined conversation unfolded vividly in her mind, cruel and unrelenting. She could practically hear the waver in her own voice: “Hi, Major… sorry to bother you at this ungodly hour, but I’m having a panic attack about absolutely nothing. Could you possibly come over and hold my hand like I’m a child who can’t manage basic human existence?”
Her stomach churned as the ghost of those words echoed in her thoughts. The wine she’d sipped earlier sat heavy and sour in her mouth now, its warmth long gone, leaving only regret behind. She sat up slightly, pressing her palms into her temples as if she could massage away both the headache building there and the relentless thrum of self-recrimination.
She’d spent years—five years—teaching herself not to need people outside her tight-knit circle: Logan, Pam… and eventually Rhys. She’d learned to carry herself through the worst nights because no one else would. Because counting on others only ended one way—with them leaving. Dying. Being sent off to places where even satellite phones couldn’t reach them.
Her fingers tightened on the blanket as she swallowed hard against rising feelings she didn’t want to name. You don’t call for backup when the problem is inside your own head, she reminded herself fiercely, a mantra repeated so many times it had become second nature. You don’t weaponize someone else’s compassion just because you’re too weak to sit alone with your fear.
But that’s what it would be—wouldn’t it? Her teeth worried at her bottom lip as a fresh wave of doubt flooded in. Using him. Taking advantage of that innate sense of duty he carried like a second skin. That deeply ingrained instinct to respond to any cry for help, no matter how small or undeserving.
That didn’t mean she had any right to drag him into hers.
A small voice whispered back—a traitorous whisper that cut through her resolve like a knife through paper: He offered.
Her eyes squeezed shut against it. “Doesn’t matter,” she muttered, as if saying it firmly enough would make it true.
People offered all the time. It was polite. Reflexive, even. A meaningless phrase tossed out like spare change: Call me if you need anything. And then they disappeared when you actually did.
She’d learned that lesson in the raw months after Zoe died, when friends stopped answering calls and texts dried up like water in a drought.
Dar’s chest tightened at the memory. She’d been too much for them—all sharp edges and bottomless grief that no one knew how to contain or comfort. Too raw. Too broken for too long.
It had been Pam who stuck around during those days when Dar wasn’t sure anyone ever would again. Pam, who lost her husband only three months after Zoe died, still showed up even when Dar didn’t ask or couldn’t speak beyond monosyllables of despair. Logan too, steadfast in his silent presence. Rhys… Rhys had shown up in ways Dar couldn’t think about right now without unravelling entirely.
She wouldn’t do that to Callum—wouldn’t become another liability he felt obligated to manage because she couldn’t keep herself together without someone holding her hand through every nightmare.
Twigs interrupted her spiralling thoughts with perfect feline timing—a chirp of inquiry as she leapt gracefully onto Dar’s bed. The cat settled beside her with an expectant look that demanded attention, and Dar obliged with an automatic scratch behind Twigs’ ears.
“At least you’re low-maintenance,” Dar murmured into the quiet room as Twigs purred under her touch—a soothing vibration against Dar’s palm that felt grounding somehow amidst everything else spinning out of control inside her head.
She glanced toward the nightstand where her phone sat untouched—the weight of Callum’s words still lingering like a phantom presence: If the ghosts start talking too loudly… call me.
Dar shook her head sharply—not at Twigs but at herself, at the absurdity of entertaining something so reckless for even half a second.
She wouldn’t call him.
Couldn’t.
The cost of misreading his offer—of becoming a burden he regretted—was far higher than sitting alone in this dark room with nothing but fear for company.
At least that was a cost she already knew how to pay.
Callum had run five kilometres after leaving Dar’s, if only to burn off the tiramisu. He didn’t turn on the lights when he stepped back into his flat; he didn’t need them. The bedsit was small enough that every corner was mapped into his muscle memory—the sharp angles of furniture edges he avoided instinctively as he moved toward the kitchenette.
A scarred wooden table occupied the corner beneath a large window, its surface buried under a scattered mess of topographic maps and encrypted laptops. The laptops were closed now, their screens dark and inscrutable, but their presence loomed like silent sentinels waiting for his attention.
He’d chosen the flat for its proximity to the running trail. The bed—the only piece of furniture in the room that felt remotely inviting—was tucked into the farthest corner from the kitchenette. The dorm-sized fridge produced an incessant hum that vibrated through the walls like distant industrial machinery—a sound that burrowed into your head, refusing to be ignored.
Everything here had been selected with one criterion in mind: How quickly could it be packed?
He pulled an identical glass from its place with three others stacked neatly in a drying rack by the sink, filled it halfway with water from the tap, and drank in slow gulps while staring at nothing in particular beyond his windowpane.
The glass hit harder than intended when he set it down—crack!—against steel countertops cold enough beneath his fingers they nearly stung. His shoulders tensed instinctively, muscles coiling tight before his brain caught up to reality: not incoming fire, just his own clumsiness. “Shit,” he exhaled sharply, as though trying to expel the adrenaline spike alongside his frustration.
The tension lingered anyway.
The visit had cost him more than he’d expected—that much was clear now. He’d gone in clean, fully prepared for what should’ve been just another operation: assess the situation, neutralise any threats, extract if necessary. Textbook stuff. Standard op.
But Dar wasn’t standard anything.
His grip tightened against the counter’s edge as her face swam to the front of his mind—unbidden but impossible to push away. The way she’d laughed last night… not a genuine laugh, not one born from joy or humour. No, it had been raw and jagged—a sound that cut deeper than words because it spoke of things unspoken. Pressure finds cracks in carefully constructed armour.
And her movements… Goddamn it, her movements haunted him too. She moved through her own house as if it wasn’t hers at all—as though every room held potential danger just beyond her line of sight. Shoulders slightly hunched forward, bracing for impact. Eyes darting toward shadows that shouldn’t have mattered but clearly did.
Then there’d been her hands—small things that trembled despite her best efforts to steady them—and how she’d let him take those plates from her grasp without protest.
Let him.
Those two words lodged in his chest like shrapnel. She hadn’t fought him. Hadn’t shut him out. She let him in.
And Callum? He’d walked right in without hesitation because, apparently, self-preservation wasn’t something he prioritised anymore.
“What were you thinking?” he asked himself aloud—softly but vehemently—as though voicing his frustration might somehow lessen its weight.
The flat didn’t answer back.
Instead of sitting still and stewing over memories that wouldn’t leave him alone anyway, Callum pushed off from the counter and began pacing—twelve steps across one end of his flat before pivoting sharply on his heel for twelve steps back again. An old habit born from holding cells and safe houses during missions, when motionless waiting felt unbearable.
But now? Now even movement failed him because every step only amplified what already churned behind his ribs: confusion… longing… guilt… desire—all tangled so tightly he couldn’t separate one emotion from another if someone held a gun to his head.
Dar had got under his skin somehow—left marks invisible yet undeniable—and worst of all? Even knowing how dangerous this could get… part of him wanted more anyway.
He checked his watch: 0317 hours.
Almost five hours until 0800 — the time he’d told her for the morning run she probably wouldn’t show up for anyway. Why would she?
Except maybe she would…
Dar woke at 0650 to pale, hesitant light slipping through the curtains she hadn’t bothered closing properly the night before. The grey hue of morning stretched across the room, softening the sharp edges of furniture and lending everything a muted, dreamlike quality. Her eyes landed on her phone, its screen glowing faintly on the nightstand. She reached for it, half-hoping for a distraction, something to tether her thoughts elsewhere. But no new messages appeared. The familiar emptiness on the screen mirrored the hollow ache in her chest.
She sighed, setting the phone back down with a faint clink against the glass surface, and stared at the ceiling. The same calculation had been spinning in her mind, looping endlessly until she’d finally succumbed to sleep sometime after 0330.
Go or don’t go.
If she went, she’d be stepping over an invisible line.
If she didn’t, she’d be sending a message just as clearly.
He hadn’t asked if she’d come. He’d simply stated it, leaving the choice entirely to her. Callum wasn’t a man who chased answers; he waited for them to come to him. And Dar knew he’d be there at 0800 sharp—no earlier, no later—because Callum operated with military precision in everything: his timing, his movements, even his silences. The real question was whether she’d show up.
It would be smart to stay home. Logical, even. Safer by every measure she could think of.
Except safety had never given her peace. It was what she’d done for years now—kept people at arm’s length with polite smiles and carefully constructed excuses—except for a select few: Pam, Logan, Rhys… and more recently, Sean.
Dar exhaled sharply and threw off the covers in one swift motion before she could think better of it.
Her running gear wasn’t neatly folded somewhere; she knew better than to hope for that kind of organisation today. Instead, she scanned the room until her eyes landed on the chair in the corner where she often abandoned clothes mid-thought or mid-motion. Sure enough, her leggings hung over one armrest like an afterthought while her long-sleeve tech shirt lay crumpled beneath yesterday’s jacket. She grabbed them both along with a sports bra from the drawer—a rare moment of tidiness—and socks that miraculously matched.
The shirt smelled faintly of sweat and something else she couldn’t quite place—defeat maybe—but it would do. Dressing became an act of muscle memory: pulling fabric over limbs without engaging her brain too much, because thinking was dangerous territory right now. Thinking led to hesitation, hesitation led to doubt, and doubt would send her straight back under those covers with a half-empty bottle of wine waiting on the coffee table.
In the bathroom mirror, she caught sight of herself: dark circles smudged beneath tired eyes that stared back with more defiance than exhaustion now. She brushed her teeth twice for good measure—the minty burn jolting her awake—and splashed cold water on her face until her skin tingled. Scraping her hair into a ponytail felt like gearing up for battle rather than a run.
When she stepped back into the living room, Twigs wound around her ankles with an indignant meow, clearly unimpressed by the delay in breakfast service.
“I know.” Dar stooped to refill her bowl with kibble that rattled against ceramic like tiny accusations. “I’m officially the worst cat mom ever.”
Twigs didn’t bother responding; she dived into her meal without further complaint while Dar grabbed an empty water bottle from the counter and filled it under the tap. Her phone alarm buzzed faintly in her pocket as she checked the time: 0740.
The river path was fifteen minutes away if she kept a brisk pace and didn’t dawdle—but there was still time to bail if she wanted to.
Her thumb hovered over her phone’s screen as doubt clawed its way back into her thoughts like an unwelcome guest whispering all the reasons this was a mistake.
Don’t go, it urged softly but insistently. Send him a text. Something came up. You’re not ready.
But instead of typing anything, Dar locked the phone with a decisive click and shoved it deep into her pocket before she could change her mind again.
Her running shoes were buried under Logan’s boots on the bottom shelf by the front door—a chaotic pile that spoke volumes about how little either of them had paid attention to order this lately. She pulled them free, noting how scuffed they looked under the hallway light, how frayed their laces had become over countless miles through mud and gravel trails.
Sitting on the bottom stair felt oddly grounding as she tied them securely—double knots just like Zoe used to insist when she was little. Double-knot them tight, Mama, Zoe had said once with the sternness only a six-year-old could muster. Or they’ll come undone, and you’ll trip and crack your head open.
The memory hit harder than expected—a sharp pang in her chest—but Dar breathed through it until it faded into something softer, more bearable.
When she finally stood, legs shaky not from grief but nerves this time, she grabbed her keys from their hook by instinct rather than thought.
She had performed her mandatory check-in as SIBYL, made sure the Glock was locked securely in its safe—the windows latched tight—the stove off. All protocols checked automatically before she stepped outside into crisp morning air that nipped at her exposed skin like tiny pinpricks, reminding her she was alive.
By 0758 sharp—as if fate conspired against excuses—she reached the river path where Callum stood waiting beneath bare trees silhouetted against dawn’s weak light.
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