But what I get?
Laughter.
From her.
A deep, uncontrolled burst of sound that bubbles up from her chest like it hasn’t had permission in years. She’s wheezing, gasping for air, eyes squeezed shut as her whole body shakes with it.
I blink. Then I break.
It hits me sideways—my own laugh, raw and rusty, clawing its way out like it’s been trapped somewhere deep. I laugh so hard my ribs ache, the kind of laugh that steals your breath and loosens your grip on everything else.
“You—you broke your damn bed,” she says between breaths, voice warbled with amusement.
“It broke under duress,” I argue, wiping tears from my eyes I didn’t know were there.
She flops onto her back, panting, hair fanned out in a halo of chaos. “Well, congrats. You’re officially a homewrecker.”
“That bed was already half-dead.”
“So are we,” she mutters, still smiling.
I crawl over to her, lean on one arm beside her head. “That a complaint?”
She arches a brow. “Do I look like I’m complaining?”
“No. You look…” I search her face, the freckle under her eye, the hair stuck to her cheek, the new edge of softness in her voice. “You look alive.”
The smile falters. Just for a second. “Yeah,” she says. “I think I forgot what that felt like.”
We lie there, the chill of the concrete sneaking up through our skin, the heat from our bodies still clinging in the air.
She turns to me. Her voice is quieter now. “So... Roja. What are we doing?”
My throat tightens. “You want the real answer?”
She nods.
I sit up, brush a hand through my hair. The strands feel damp, clinging to my temple. I stare at the broken bed frame, the bent metal legs, the torn corner of a blanket hanging off the edge. I’ve faced interrogations with less fear than this.
I look back at her. “I want you,” I say. “Every part. Not just the parts you show when you’re scared or mad or trying to fight. I want the quiet moments, the soft ones. The anger. The ache. I want it all. And I don’t want to hide it anymore.”
She doesn’t speak. Just stares.
My voice lowers. “You don’t have to say anything right now. I just needed you to know.”
She sits up slowly, legs folding under her. Her hand reaches out, brushes lightly across my shoulder. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“I thought this would just be—” she pauses, chews her lip, “—you know.”
I smirk. “Just a fling between fugitives?”
She laughs, but it’s quieter this time. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“I can do that,” I say. “But I’d be lying.”
She studies me. Her eyes don’t blink. Then she scoots closer, knees bumping mine. She presses her forehead to my shoulder. “I’m not good at... this.”
