I pull the covers over her, tuck them around her shoulders. Brush a curl off her forehead. My touch on her skin—soft, warm, perfect.
She sighs in her sleep, turns toward my hand, and nuzzles into my palm.
I stare at her face long enough to memorize the shape of her lashes, the faint freckles on her nose, the way her lips part slightly when she breathes.
I want to crawl in beside her.
I want to pull her against my chest, feel her heartbeat against mine, feel her safe and warm and mine.
I don’t.
I step back. Force myself to the doorway.
Gray’s rule echoes again: No personal involvement. But it’s too late. I’m already involved. I’m already hers.
I close the bedroom door softly, walk back to the couch, and lie down. Sleep doesn’t come. All I can think about is her in my bed, wearing my shirt, breathing my air, and how badly I want to be in there with her.
Chapter six
Megan
The pull between us has become unbearable.
It’s been three days since Aaron carried me into this cabin like I was something precious and dangerous all at once. Three days of stolen glances that linger too long, accidental touches that aren’t accidental at all, and silences so thick they feel like they could snap at any second. Every morning, I wake up in his bed alone, because he still insists on the couch, and find him already outside, shirtless and glistening in the dawn light, doing pull-ups or chopping wood like some kind of Texas myth. Every evening we sit side by side on the couch, laptops open, digging into the corruption web, our shoulders brushing, knees touching, pretending it’s nothing.
It’s everything.
Today, the tension finally boils over.
Aaron decided it was time for me to learn to shoot.
“Self-defense isn’t just hand-to-hand,” he said over breakfast, voice low and serious, eyes fixed on his coffee like he couldn’tbear to look at me. “You need to know how to handle a firearm. Just in case.”
I raised an eyebrow, heart already kicking. “You think I’m going to need to shoot someone?”
“I think I’d rather you be prepared than helpless.” He finally met my gaze, those winter-sky eyes dark with something unspoken. “I won’t always be there to protect you.”
The words landed like a punch. I swallowed hard. “You’re always here.”
His jaw tightened. “Not forever.”
The unspoken question hung between us:What happens when the threat’s gone?
So here we are, at the private range behind the main compound. The air smells of gunpowder and dry grass. The sun is high, warm on my shoulders. Aaron stands behind me, his chest almost touching my back, arms caging me as he shows me how to hold the Glock 19.
“Feet shoulder-width,” he murmurs, breath hot against my ear. His voice is gravel and smoke, vibrating through me. “Knees soft. Lean into it.”
His hands slide slowly down my arms, guiding mine into position. His fingers wrap over mine on the grip. His thumbs press against the inside of my wrists, steadying. His chest brushes my back with every breath he takes. I can feel the heat of him through my borrowed T-shirt, the hard planes of muscle.
“Like this?” I ask, voice breathy, barely above a whisper.
“Almost.” He adjusts my stance, one big hand settling on my hip, thumb pressing into the hollow above my waistband. “Weight forward. Shoulders relaxed.”
His cheek is against mine now, his rough stubble scraping my skin, his lips so close to my ear I feel them move when he speaks.
“Both eyes open. Front sight is sharp. Target slightly blurred.”
I swallow. Hard. My whole body is tuned to him, the heat of his chest, the way his breath fans across my neck, the low rumble of his voice that sinks into my bones. I can feel every inch where we touch, and it’s too much and not enough.
