“And you didn’t fail me. You saved me. Probably half a dozen times by now.”
Her thumb traces across my knuckles. Over each ragged piece of skin. The touch is gentle. Deliberate. Meant to comfort, but sending heat straight through me instead.
“Maybe it’s time to let someone save you back,” she whispers.
I’m leaning in before I realize it. Drawn to her despite every reason not to be. Her breath catches. I feel it more than hear it. See her eyes drop to my mouth for just a second before coming back up.
Before I can close the distance—before I can make another mistake I’ll have to walk back from—the comm chirps.
I pull away. Put three feet between us in one step. Grateful for the interruption. Terrified of what I almost did.
New message. Flagged urgent from Hargen Cole: “Change of plan. We have a team closer to you. Eight hours away. Advise you move to secondary extraction point immediately—coordinates attached. Do not wait for primary pickup. —Cole”
I frown. No telling what prompted this update, but I’m not going to question it.
I show Ember the message without a word.
Her lips purse. “We have to leave now?” She runs an eye around the small lodge. Over the cot where we almost went too far last night.
Or not far enough.
“Yes. We move to secondary extraction.” I try to feel relieved that we won’t be confined to close quarters together for the next few hours. Somehow, all I feel is disappointment.
We prepare to move in tense silence. Without thinking, I start gathering supplies from the cache: dried rations, water purification tablets, emergency medical kit. Checking weapons. Planning the route to the secondary extraction coordinates that Cole provided.
“Do we need all of that?” she glances at the pack. “It’s only going to be a few hours before we’re out of here.”
“I think we’ve learned the hard way that anything might change in an instant. Don’t you?” I glance at her.
She heaves a breath, then gives a nod. For long minutes, we work side-by-side with careful professionalism that barely masks the tension. Every accidental touch—handing over gear, adjusting pack straps—sends awareness crackling between us.
I check her pack weight. My hand lingers on her shoulder… just for a second, but long enough to feel the warmth of her through the fabric. Long enough for her to glance up at me with those beautiful eyes.
Long enough to remember exactly how that shoulder felt bare under my palm last night.
I pull away. Move to my own gear. Keep my hands busy so they don’t reach for her again.
She passes me ammunition. Her fingers brush mine; deliberate or accidental, I can’t tell. The contact sends heat up my arm, either way.
“I’m not taking it back.” Her voice is quiet. Steady.
I look up from securing my sidearm. “Taking what back?”
“What I said. About choosing you.” She turns to face me fully. Meets my eyes without flinching. “For what it’s worth, I meant it.”
My throat tightens. Words stick somewhere between my chest and my mouth. All the things I should say, the professional responses, the gentle rejections, the careful distance that keeps us both safe.
None of them comes.
Because standing here looking at her—hair unruly, chin lifted in defiance—I know she’s not the only one who meant it last night.
I meant it too. Every touch. Every kiss. Every moment I let my control slip.
That’s the problem.
She doesn’t wait for a response. Just shoulders her pack. Tests the weight distribution. Turns and heads for the door without looking back.
I stand there for three seconds. Five. Watching her disappear into predawn gray.
