His hand is still locked on my hip.
“I keep telling myself we should wait,” he says quietly.
“For what?” I whisper, lips tingling.
He gives a short, broken laugh. “For… a lot of things. For the bounty to be gone. For Helios to be a non-issue. For us not to be hiding in a forest with a murder spreadsheet on the table.”
I search his face in the dim light. “And?” I ask.
“And I keep looking at you,” he says, thumb rubbing slow circles at my waist, “and there’s a voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like yours sayingyou don’t know how much time you get, so maybe stop pretending you do.”
My throat tightens. “That voice sounds annoyingly wise,” I manage.
“It’s insufferable,” he agrees. He draws back just enough to really look at me. His gaze roams my face, like he’s scanning for hesitation, for regret, for any sign that he should step back and go back to being the responsible one.
I don’t give him any.
I can feel the want written all over me.
The trust, too.
“Lark,” he says, voice serious now, one notch deeper, “if we do this… there’s no pretending it didn’t happen later. No ‘oops,bunker brain.’ No ‘it was just stress.’ This is not casual for me. Not something I can toss back in a drawer when we get home.”
My heart hits the back of my ribs. “Good,” I say, surprising both of us with how steady it sounds. “Because I don’t want it to be casual. I don’t…” I swallow, forcing the words out. “I don’t sleep with people who feel temporary. I’ve spent enough of my life feeling like that.”
His jaw flexes. Something fierce flashes behind his eyes. “I’m not temporary,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m… here.”
His fingers tighten just a fraction. “Are you sure?” he asks. “About this. About me. About right now.”
There’s no teasing in it.
No ego.
Just a man who’s spent his life fixing other people’s broken code and doesn’t want to accidentally break me.
I take a breath. “Do I want you?” I say. “Yes. Have I thought about this for longer than is reasonable? Also yes. Am I scared? Kind of. Am I going to let that stop me?” I step closer, pressing my body fully against his, leaving no space for doubt. “No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”
Something in his expressionbreaks.
In a good way.
He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks and finally got the all-clear. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Yeah. Okay.”
He kisses me again, and this time there’s no question in it. His hand finds mine, fingers weaving, and without breaking the kiss he walks me backward, guiding, careful not to let me trip. My heels bump the rug, the doorway, the narrow hall wall. We fumble and laugh into each other’s mouths, breathless and clumsy and so damnalive.
He kicks the bedroom door shut behind us with a quiet thud.
The sound echoes in my chest like a seal on something I can’t name.
He backs me toward the bed, slowing at the last second so my knees hit the mattress gently. I sink down, pulling him with me, and we topple together in a tangle of limbs and covers.
He catches most of his weight on his arms, braced above me, giving me space, not pinning, not trapping. “How’s your anxiety level now?” he asks, voice rough, eyes searching mine.
“Somewhere between meltdown and transcendence,” I say. “It’s weird, I kind of like it.”
His mouth kicks up at the corner. “You’re ridiculous.”
