His eyes were soft and shadowed with sleep—but focused. He looked at her like she was something fragile, armored in steel.
She’d always loved waking up in his arms. For a man so full of ego and brawn, he had a vulnerability and sense of kindness that couldn’t be denied. He made her feel… like a woman. It was odd to think that. But most men didn’t fulfill that deep-seated need buried inside her. They treated her like an equal, which she had demanded—needed. Being respected had been an essential part of moving up in the ranks. She’d never wanted to be seen as different because of her gender. But that didn’t mean she didn’t want her bed partners to miss out on the fact she was indeed… a woman.
Most of the men in her life seemed to have forgotten that aspect. In the field, at the bar, even in bed—she was just another operator. One of the guys who happened to have different anatomy—as strange as that sounded. But she supposed that's why those relationships never lasted.
Kawan was different. He saw both sides of her and valued them equally.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For not letting me go under.”
“You’ve pulled me out before.” He reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was just returning the favor.”
That tugged at something low in her chest—something old and tangled and just a little raw.
They'd been here before. Not this exact room, not this exact morning—but moments like this. Between missions. Those brief flashes of realness where they let the armor fall away. Let humanity seep through the steel walls meant to shield from the harshness of war.
“You always had good timing,” she murmured.
His hand slid to her hip, anchoring her there.
“So did you,” he said. “Though, to be fair, I always thought you were the one running away.”
Lark’s brow lifted. “Maybe in the end, but you ghosted me in Djibouti.”
“That was a tactical retreat,” he said, grin tinged with something that looked like old hurt. “You were already planning your exit. I could see it in your eyes. Figured I'd save us both the awkward morning-after and left first.”
“I thought you were trouble.”
“Still am.”
He leaned in slowly.
Gave her time to move. Time to stop it—because he’d always been that kind of man.
But she wasn’t about to stop him.
Their mouths met softly at first, a whisper of memory and regret.
Then heat. Familiar. Electric.
His hand curved around her jaw, thumb grazing the line of her cheek as he deepened the kiss. There was no hesitation in it. No games. Just want. Need.
She twisted toward him, her leg hooking around his as she shifted onto her back. He followed, bracing above her, weight balanced in his forearms. It was clear he was trying not to press against her sore ribs. Something in her softened in the face of his nurturing, protective nature that somehow coexisted with the hardened, lethal sailor.
“Kawan,” she whispered, breath catching as his lips trailed down her neck, slow and reverent. “We probably shouldn’t…”
“I know,” he said, voice rough, lips brushing her collarbone. “But I don’t want to stop.”
Neither did she.
She hadn’t wanted to feel anything—hadn’t expected to—but the ache inside her wasn’t just grief anymore. It was longing. A need for connection. A desperate craving for something human in the middle of all this brokenness.
“But here’s your out. Take it now, or this is going all the way,” he said, pulling back to search her face.
She studied his eyes—dark and turbulent, reflecting the storm they were both caught in. His features were etched with worry and want, a plea hanging on his lips that matched her own unspoken need. “All the way,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, yet clear in the still room.
