Special Agent | ✓

Forty-Nine

a/n: this is what you came for.

Forty-Nine

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Quinn climbed out of the mess of pillows with an aching body. She'd slept fitfully, and had only managed to tumble into sleep due to a bone-deep fatigue that'd gripped her since she'd scraped herself off the sandy deck of Gavin's aunt's cottage.

After that, she'd merely fallen headlong onto the covers and felt the dark grab her, shoving her into sleep. Quinn's eyes ticked around the room until they settled on a wall-mounted clock, proudly displaying the time.

Nine in the morning. She'd slept for six solid hours, at least, since her breakdown. It had been a breakdown, the first of its kind in regards to its intensity. She had felt the walls closing in, her throat closing up, body locking entirely. Thinking of it jolted her heart into a quicker rhythm, so Quinn forced herself to do a series of deep inhales, expelling some of the tension and pain clinging to her chest. It eased some of the sharp pain in her stomach, too, emanating from her wound whenever she moved.

Eyes darting to the wide stretch of beach outside the glass doors, Quinn felt the staccato beat of her heart slow, slightly. Getting out of bed this time wasn't accompanied by any panic, and there was no cold sweat dotting the back of her head, her hands. Planting her feet solidly on the wooden floors, Quinn took a couple of steady steps toward the glass doors.

She opened them, this time slowly. Quinn reminder herself that she was in control now, and the sunlight helped, as did the roll of the waves, the cry of a gull. Her eyes swept the beach, stopped when they noted a scattering of vacationers lounging on foldable chairs, or playing in the surf.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Quinn remained standing, eyes stuck on the happy beachgoers. The logical piece of her mind noted the civilians' attire, the make of their car, attempted to distinguish the license plate and nationality.

Quinn ignored that part, something she hadn't done for a long, long time. That data-driven part of her had kept her alive for so long, kept her from worrying about the what-ifs and could-bes. That part had shut down, rebooted, last night when the anxiety attack hit her like a freight train. It was, in Quinn's mind, still rebooting. She'd let it remain in that mode, at least for a day, until she found a firm footing. At least, more footing than she'd found last night, all thanks to Gavin.

The thought of him made Quinn turn, stride back toward the cottage and through her bedroom. She hadn't seen the interior, and so the push past the door revealed an entirely new room.

It was clean, modern.

Safe, thought Quinn, as her eyes surveyed the room.

High ceilings, bright white walls. Open-plan decor, the surprisingly modern separated from the living room by a kitchen island. It was wide, topped with polished stone, as well as a plate stacked with an omelette.

The living room boasted a TV topping an antique-looking bench, crowded with a number of colorful novels and assorted trinkets. A grouping of comfortable-looking beige couches surrounded a larger wooden table, bearing a vase overflowing with colorful flowers.

Quinn's eyes shot back to the omelette, resting innocently on the kitchen island.

"It's yours."

The voice came from behind her. Quinn turned, swiftly, heart kicking before it relaxed again, seeing Gavin's face. He'd appeared from the room next to hers, muscled arms crossed, leaning against the jamb in the open doorway.