The muscles in his back shift and flex under his torn shirt with each strike, each pull. Sweat gleams on his skin despite the cold that’s seeped into my bones. His breathing fills the space; harsh, labored, but controlled. Like he’s been at this for hours.
Because he has.
Guilt twists in my chest, sharp enough to steal what little breath I have left. This is the third time I’ve drifted off while he’s taken care of us. Third time I’ve collapsed while he watched over me. And now he’s digging. For hours, maybe. Time feels wrong down here, elastic and unreliable.
He keeps saving me without hesitation. And I’ve repaid him by passing out while he tears his hands apart trying to get us out.
I should be helping. Should have been helping all along.
“Why did you let me fall asleep?” My voice comes out hoarse, scraped raw by dust and exhaustion.
Luke pauses mid-strike. His shoulders tense, just for a second, then he drives the rebar into a crack between stones.
“And do what? Watch me dig?” Another chunk breaks free with a grinding crack. He tosses it aside without looking back. “Rest while you can.”
His voice is rough, flat with exhaustion, but edged with something else.
Is he thinking about that kiss?
“I can help.” I push myself upright, ignoring the way every joint protests. The cold has settled deep, making everything stiff and slow. My fingers are numb. My legs don’t want to hold me.
“You can rest.” He still doesn’t turn. “You need it.”
“So do you.” I scan the rubble until I find another piece of rebar, shorter than his, bent at an angle that might give me leverage. “Move.”
“Ember—”
“Move, Luke.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t. Just stays there, hunched in that narrow gap, hands bloody around the metal bar. Then he shifts to the side, making room.
I wedge myself in beside him.
The space is too small. Too tight. His shoulder brushes mine as I position the rebar, and I feel the heat of him even through our clothes, a sharp contrast to the cold air pressing in from all sides. The tunnel is barely wide enough for one person to work, let alone two, but I’m not backing down.
I drive my makeshift lever into the same crack he was working. The metal scrapes against stone, the sound echoing back at us from the darkness. My arms shake with the effort, muscles burning, but the stone doesn’t budge.
Luke reaches past me, his hand covering mine on the rebar. “Here. Angle it like this.”
His fingers are warm, callused, and sticky with blood. The touch sends a jolt up my arm; electric, visceral. I suck in a breath, and his hand tightens fractionally before he pulls away.
“Try now,” he says, voice carefully neutral.
I do. This time, the stone shifts; just barely, but it moves. We work in tandem, him prying from one side while I lever from the other. The rhythm comes naturally: push, pull, shift. Our breathing falls into a rhythm, harsh and loud in the confined space.
Every few minutes, our hands brush. His arm against mine as we reach for the same rock. His hip bumping mine when we both shift weight. Each time, I feel it—that spark, that pull. The awareness that thrums beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
This isn’t the time. We’re buried alive, possibly bleeding out slowly, and I’m watching the way his muscles flex when he strains against a stubborn piece of debris. The way his breath catches. The heat that radiates off him like he’s burning from the inside out.
Maybe he is. Even without his dragon, he’s still more than human. I can feel it in the way he moves stone I couldn’t budge alone, in the barely leashed strength that makes him careful around me, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he forgets to hold back.
I’ve lost my power. He’s lost his dragon. But the difference is stark. He’s still powerful. Still dangerous.
Still capable of protecting me when I can’t protect myself.
I hate that I needed protecting. Hate more that I’m grateful for it.
“You should have left me,” I say between breaths, shoving against a rock that refuses to move. “When the helicopter went down. Mara would have been more useful. You should have—”
