Something’s off.
His head tilts, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of gold remains. His breathing changes—deeper, slower, like an animal scenting prey. Or danger.
“K?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. His hand presses against his chest, fingers curling into fabric. Every muscle in his body tenses like he’s bracing against something invisible.
Then his eyes snap back into focus, and he staggers slightly, catching himself against the tree.
I grab his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“I—” He presses harder against his chest, like something inside him pulled taut. “I felt something. A pull. Like—” He struggles for words, frustration clear on his face. “Like something needed answering. Far away. But… urgent.”
“Answering what?”
“I do not know.” He looks down at his hand like it belongs to someone else. “But my body responded. Heat. Purpose. Then it faded.”
Unease crawls down my spine. Another impossible thing. Another mystery with no explanation.
Below, an operative turns. Scanning the tree line.
K moves.
Not away—overme.
His body covers mine completely, one hand cradling my skull, the other braced against the tree. His chest presses against my back, his weight pinning me to the earth. Heat radiates fromhim, and I can feel his heartbeat against my spine—still too slow, still impossible.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs against my ear. “Don’t breathe.”
I couldn’t if I wanted to. Every nerve ending is screaming—not from fear of the Syndicate operative, but from K’s weight covering me, the way his fingers thread gently into my hair while the rest of him is pure coiled threat.
The operative’s gaze sweeps the slope. Passes over us. Hesitates.
K’s breath is warm against my neck. His body is utterly still, but I can feel the tension in him.
Seconds stretch endlessly.
Finally, the operative turns away. “Nothing. Probably just wildlife.”
Another voice crackles: “Pack it up. Command wants us back.”
K doesn’t move. Not immediately. Like he’s forgotten he’s still covering me. Or like some part of him doesn’t want to let go.
His thumb brushes the side of my neck—just once, so brief I might have imagined it.
Then he shifts his weight and lifts himself off me, moving back into a crouch.
I stay pressed against the earth, trying to remember how to breathe normally. My skin burns where he touched me. My pulse pounds in my throat.
What the hell was that?
K watches the operatives pack up, his expression unreadable. When the last vehicle disappears around the far ridge, he finally turns to me.
“We go,” he says quietly. “Different direction. Away from them.”
I nod, throat too tight for words.
He reaches for me, and I let him lift me without protest. But this time… this time I’m even more painfully aware of every point of contact.
