"What do you want to talk about?"
"Tell me your name."
"Zane," I say, because we're probably going to die in here anyway. "Zane Quinn."
"Lena Cruz."
Cruz. Miguel's last name. My suspicion confirmed while we're freezing to death.
"Your brother's going to kill me," I say.
"If we don't freeze first." Her whole body is shaking against mine. "God, you're warm."
"You're not. You're like holding an ice sculpture."
"Sweet talker."
I adjust our position, trying to cover more of her exposed skin. She makes a sound that might be pain or relief.
"Tell me something," she says. "Anything. Keep talking."
"I've been obsessed with you since that first text. That first voice note. I think about you constantly. Dream about you. Jerk off thinking about you every fucking night."
"Romantic," she mutters against my throat.
"You wanted honesty."
"Tell me more."
"I've never wanted anything the way I want you. It's pathological. You've rewired my entire fucking brain, and we've barely touched until now."
She presses closer, and I can feel her heartbeat against my chest—too slow, hypothermia setting in.
"My turn," she whispers. "I saved your friend today. At the warehouse. Ranger. Shoulder wound."
Ranger. He was at the warehouse massacre. She was there, saving everyone, including my brothers.
"You were there?"
"I'm always there when people bleed. Doesn't matter whose people."
"Your brother know?"
"He knows I was there. Doesn't know about you. About us."
"There's an us?"
She looks up at me, eyes unfocused from the cold. "If we survive this, there's an us."
"We're surviving."
"I'm so cold, Zane."
First time she's used my name. It hits different when she might be dying.
"Stay awake. Talk to me."
"Can't. Too tired."
