My answer’s a gasp. “Because I had to.”
“Liar.”
I pull back, panting. “You don’t get to call me that.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
“I’mtrying,” I breathe.
His forehead rests against mine. “So try harder.”
And just like that, I’m kissing him again.
Because it’s easier than talking.
Because my body remembers what my brain’s too scared to admit.
Because for one breathless, shattering moment…
He’s mine again.
…
I slip out before he can speak.
Before he can ruin it.
Or worse —understand it.
The door to the training room hisses shut behind me with a soft thump, and I press my back to the cold corridor wall.
My lungs won’t work right. My breath’s coming in ragged gasps that scrape the back of my throat like gravel. My heart’s a war drum.
My lips are still tingling.
His taste lingers — salt and sweat and memory.
Too much. Too familiar.
Too dangerous.
I drag trembling fingers through my hair, trying to piece myself back together.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to no one. To myself. To the ghosts.
For what I’m still keeping from him.
For whatthatmight cost.
I push off the wall and stumble forward, each step heavier than the last. My legs feel like they don’t belong to me, like I’ve been hollowed out and filled with static.
Because that wasn’t just a kiss.
It was a fuse.
And I lit it.
I reach the lift and slam the panel harder than I need to. The soft glow of the system flickers once — barely perceptible — and I freeze.
