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.
Hereford – Safehouse
Dar pulled the blanket higher, a useless shield against the thought that had circled her mind since Callum left. His voice was still there, low and steady, echoing in the dark. Call me. Anytime. The words were a pattern she couldn’t break, a comfortable distance from what she truly wanted, a feeling too complex to name.
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 opening of her curtains. She shifted her head just enough to glance at the clock glowing faintly across the room—02:35. 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 was a cruel loop in her mind. She could hear her own voice, tight with a tremor she couldn’t hide: “Hi, Major…sorry to bother you. I’m just…having a dreadful night. Could you—” No. She cut the thought off. The humiliation was so sharp it was almost physical.
Her stomach churned as the ghost of those words echoed in her thoughts. The wine she’d sipped earlier had turned sour on her tongue, its warmth gone, leaving only remorse 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.
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.
Its outcome would indeed resemble that, 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 undid her resolve in a single pull: 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.
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.
Eventually she’d learned to carry herself through the worst nights because no one else could. Because counting on others only ended one way—with them leaving. Dying. Being sent to places where even satellite phones couldn’t reach them.
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.
Hereford – Callum’s Flat
Callum ran five kilometres after leaving Dar’s. Burned off the tiramisu. Burned off nothing else.
He didn’t turn on the lights when he stepped into his flat; he didn’t need them. Muscle memory navigated the bedsit—furniture edges avoided, kitchenette located, threat assessment: nil. The scarred table in the corner held 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 the running trail. Close extraction point if needed. The bed occupied the far corner. Dorm fridge hummed white noise. Everything here answered one question: how fast can you pack it?
Typical transient setup. Clean. Efficient.
He pulled a glass from the drying rack—one of four, identical—and filled it halfway with water from the tap and drank in slow gulps while staring at nothing beyond his windowpane.
The glass hit harder than intended when he set it down against steel countertops, cold enough beneath his fingers they nearly stung. His shoulders were already up around his ears before he’d registered the sound, some old circuitry firing before thought could interrupt it. Then he stood there, hand still on the glass, feeling faintly ridiculous. “Shit,” he said to no one.
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.
Dar wasn’t standard anything.
Her face surfaced—unavoidable. That laugh. Raw. Jagged. Not humour. Not joy. The sound of someone standing too close to the edge, trying to convince herself the drop wasn’t there.
The way she’d moved through her own house. Defensive posture in familiar terrain. Shoulders hunched. Eyes tracking shadows that shouldn’t matter. Bracing for impact in every room.
Her hands. Small. Trembling despite efforts to steady them.
And she’d let him take those plates from her.
Let him.
The words lodged somewhere behind his sternum. She hadn’t fought. Hadn’t shut him out. She’d surrendered the ground without resistance, and he’d walked right in because apparently self-preservation was no longer mission critical.
What the hell was I thinking?
The flat offered no answers.
Callum pushed off the counter. Paced. Twelve steps, pivot, twelve steps back. Holding cell habit. Safe house rhythm. Movement when stillness became untenable.
It didn’t help. Every step amplified what stirred beneath his ribs: confusion…longing…guilt…desire—all tangled into something he couldn’t parse. Couldn’t compartmentalise. Couldn’t file in the neat operational boxes that had kept him functional for years.
Dar had breached his perimeter. Left marks he couldn’t see but couldn’t ignore.
Worse: knowing how dangerous this was, part of him wanted more anyway.
He checked his watch. 0317 hours. Five hours until 0800. The morning run he’d mentioned. The one she wouldn’t show up for.
Why would she?
Except—Maybe she would.
Hereford – Safehouse
Dar woke at 0650 to pale, hesitant light slipping through the curtains she hadn’t bothered closing properly the night before. The morning’s grey light washed over the room, blurring furniture lines and giving the space a soft, ethereal feel. 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 the select few… 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 was exactly where she’d abandoned it: draped over the corner chair, a testament to a life lived in mid-motion. She grabbed the leggings and shirt without a second thought, not caring that they were crumpled. This wasn’t about looking presentable; it was about moving before doubt could drag her back under the covers.
The shirt smelled faintly of something she couldn’t quite place—defeat maybe—but it would do. Dressing was purely automatic: 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: her face slightly puffy on one side from the pillow, 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 entered the kitchen, 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: 0730.
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 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 already performed her mandatory check-in with the task force, coding her status as secure. Glock locked in its safe, windows latched, stove off. The protocol was a familiar rhythm, the final barrier between her home and the outside world. 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 the morning’s weak light.