"Carolina," he says, voice low. "I need you to know something. What I feel for you—it's not trauma bonding. It's real. You're brilliant, brave, beautiful, and I'm falling for you more every day."
My breath catches. "Flint..."
"You don't have to say it back. I just needed you to know."
"We barely know each other."
"You disarm bombs while staying calmer than most people order coffee. You're brave enough to face your worst nightmare because people need you. You look at me like I matter—not just as a Guardian, but as a person." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "And I want to keep discovering everything else."
I silence him with a kiss, pouring everything I feel into it. When we break apart, we're both breathing carefully—him because of his ribs, me because of emotion.
The kiss starts slow, testing what his healing ribs can handle. But heat builds quickly—a week of careful distance, suppressed want, the bone-deep need to confirm we're both alive and here.
His hands slide into my hair, angling my head. I respond carefully, palms flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat but being gentle with the still-tender ribs.
The kiss turns hungry, desperate, all the fear and adrenaline of the past week transmuting into something hotter, more immediate.
"Carolina," he breathes against my mouth. "If we keep going…"
"I know." I pull back to meet his eyes. "I don't want to hurt you. Your ribs?—"
"Are fine if we're careful." He kisses me again, slower but deeper. "I need you. Need to feel you. Been thinking about it all week."
His answer isn’t words—it’s another kiss. Slower this time, but deeper, hotter, the kind that feels like surrender and promise all tangled together.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, drawing me closer until there’s no space left to think, only the thud of his heartbeat against my chest and the taste of him stealing what’s left of my breath.
His hands slide down my sides, thumbs brushing the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up, and I arch into the touch.
We navigate his injury carefully—my hands gentle when they encounter bandages, our movements slow and deliberate. I end up straddling his lap, my hands framing his face as I kiss him deeply.
His hands span my waist, sliding up beneath my shirt, calloused palms rough against my skin. The sensation sends shivers through me, heat pooling low in my belly. When his fingers find the clasp of my bra, he pauses, giving me space to refuse.
I don't.
Instead, I pull back long enough to drag my shirt over my head, letting it fall to the floor beside the couch.
Flint's eyes go dark, pupils blown wide as he takes me in—half-naked in his lap, flushed and wanting.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, then leans forward to press kisses along my collarbone, my shoulder, the upper swell of my breast.
My head falls back, breath coming faster as his mouth explores. His hands are everywhere—spanning my ribs, tracing my spine, mapping every inch of exposed skin with a thoroughness that makes me tremble.
"Bedroom," I manage to gasp out, though the word feels ridiculous when every inch of me is on fire from his touch, his calloused hands sliding up my thighs like he owns them already. My skin tingles, heat pooling low in my belly, and I can barely think straight with the ache building between my legs.
"You're in charge of the pace," he says, hands spanning my waist. "But God, Carolina, I need you."
I lean in and kiss him fiercely, pouring all my pent-up need into it, my tongue tangling with his to silence any more hesitation.
He chuckles low, a predatory sound that vibrates against my lips. His hands are on my waist, firm, commanding, surprising me with his strength.
His fingers dig into my flesh like he's already mapping out how he'll take me apart.
"Get these off," he orders, voice low and rough, nodding toward his jeans with a tilt of his chin.
I fumble with his belt buckle, my hands trembling with anticipation, the metal clinking softly as I yank it open. The zipper follows, rasping down with a sound that echoes in the charged air, my pulse racing as I feel the heat radiating from him beneath the denim.
He lifts his hips just enough— a controlled, powerful motion despite the wince that flickers across his face—allowing me to shove the jeans and boxers down his legs.
