“You think you’ll regret it?”
Yes.
No.
I don’t know.
“I think we both need to focus on survival right now.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then releases my vest and sits back, putting space between us that feels like miles.
“Right,” she says quietly. “Survival. Professional distance. Got it.”
The hurt in her voice guts me.
“Ember—”
“It’s fine, Luke.” She wraps her arms around her knees again. A posture that I’m growing to recognize. “You’re right. Bad timing. Stress response. Whatever.”
She’s dismissing what just happened. Writing it off as circumstance instead of choice.
And I’m letting her.
Because the alternative—admitting that kissing her was the first honest thing I’ve done in decades—is too dangerous to acknowledge.
The mountain groans again. Quieter this time. More distant.
“Tremors are easing,” I say, grateful for the distraction. “Another hour, then we try to find that air current.”
“And if we can’t?”
“We will.”
She doesn’t argue. Just nods once and turns away.
The silence that settles between us now is different. Loaded with everything we’re not saying. Everything that kiss meant and didn’t mean.
I close my eyes and try to focus on what to do to get out of here.
Try not to taste her on my lips or feel the ghost of her fingers on my chest.
Try not to acknowledge that kissing Ember was both the worst decision I’ve ever made and the only thing that’s felt real in my lifetime.
I fail at all three.
Chapter 14
Ember
I wake to the scrape of stone on stone. I shake my head, blinking. I must have dozed off yet again. I can’t remember when in my life I’ve ever felt this tired.
The sound drags me up through layers of exhaustion, pulling me from dreams I can’t remember… only that they were dark and full of smoke. For one disorienting second, I don’t know where I am. Then the ache in my ankle kicks in, sharp and insistent, and memory crashes back like a second collapse.
The tunnel. The cave-in. Luke.
I blink again, force my eyes open. The darkness is like a wall, except for a thin beam of light cutting through the dust-thick air. Luke’s flashlight, propped against a chunk of rubble, catches every particle that swirls and drifts in its narrow path. The air tastes like earth and dust, coating my tongue, settling in my lungs with every breath.
Luke is wedged into the gap where the ceiling came down, his back to me, working at the rubble with relentless determination. He’s using his knife and a twisted length of rebar to pry chunks of stone free, his movements steady despite the raw state of his hands. Even in the dim light, I can see the blood; knuckles split, palms torn. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow.
