I kiss her neck, find that spot where her pulse hammers, and she makes a sound that's going to haunt my dreams. "Mine," I growl against her skin, needing to mark her, claim her, make this real.
"Not yet," she gasps, but her hands are under my shirt, nails dragging down my back in a way that's definitely leaving marks.
"When?"
"When we won't get killed for it."
"So never?"
"Probably never."
We're kissing again, desperate, claiming, like we can somehow make this sustainable through sheer force of want. Her hands find the bruises from the freezer incident—still purple-yellow on my ribs where I pressed against frozen metal—and she pulls back.
"Who did this?"
"The freezer. Saving you."
She traces them gently, and the tenderness after the desperation almost breaks me.
"I should look at these."
"You should."
"Medically."
"Sure."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. Look at whatever you want."
She does. Runs her hands over my chest, checking ribs, cataloging damage, being a nurse while also being the woman who's about to destroy my entire life. The duality of her—angel and disaster, healer and weapon—makes me insane.
My phone buzzes. Emergency. Ghost needs me. Now.
"I have to go," I say, not moving.
"Me too," she says, also not moving.
"This is—"
"Unsustainable,” she deadpans.
"I was going to say perfect."
"It's both."
One more kiss. Softer this time. A promise instead of a claim.
"When?" I ask.
"I don't know."
"I'll wait."
"It could be forever."
"I'll wait forever."
