He stirs.
I go rigid.
Shit!
His breathing changes first; no longer the deep, even rhythm of sleep. His arms tighten fractionally around me, then go still. Then drop away from me. Awareness returning in stages.
The silence stretches so taut it hums.
Then his hand moves, finding mine where it rests against his bare stomach. His fingers wrap around my wrist. Gentle but unyielding.
“Don’t.”
The word is quiet. Rough with sleep and something deeper.
He draws my hand away from his skin. Sets it carefully against his chest instead, on top of the fabric. His touch lingers for a second—warm and deliberate—before he releases me entirely.
Oh God, I’m going to die.
Then he’s moving. Unwinding himself from around me with a control that somehow makes the rejection worse. His arms leave my body. His chest no longer pressed against my cheek. Cool air rushes in where his warmth had been, and I fight the impulse to follow.
I don’t look at him yet. Can’t bring myself to.
“We should move,” he says somewhere above me. All business now. Like the past few hours never happened. Like waking up wrapped around each other meant nothing. “Another hour and the tunnels will be active with patrols.”
My face burns. Embarrassment and something sharper twisting in my stomach.
“Right.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Of course.”
I sit up, wrapping my arms around myself against the sudden cold. The unearthly light paints everything in shades of blue and green, making it easier to avoid eye contact. I focus on the wall instead. The steady throb of light that matches the frantic hammering in my chest.
Behind me, Luke’s already gathering our meager possessions. Efficient movements. No hesitation. Like nothing happened because, technically, nothing did.
Except it feels likesomething.
Some line we didn’t cross but came too close to.
I force myself to stand. My legs protest after hours pressed against cold stone, but I push through it. Find the jacket where it fell when he stood. Pull it on with shaking fingers that have nothing to do with temperature.
When I finally turn around, he’s going through the pack. Shoulders tense beneath tactical gear that somehow looks unfairly good even after days on the move.
I want to say something. Acknowledge what just happened or didn’t happen or whatever that was. But the words stick in my throat.
“Eastern exit is our best option,” he says without looking up. “Syndicate will expect us to backtrack toward the entrance. We go deeper instead.”
“Okay.” I clear my throat. Try again. “How long?”
“Four hours if we’re lucky. More if we run into complications.”
Complications.Right. That’s one word for it.
He finally meets my eyes. Just for a second. Something changes in his expression—regret maybe, or frustration—before it’s gone again, buried under that infuriating control.
“Let’s go,” he says.
And just like that, we’re back to mission mode. Operative and asset.
Nothing more.
