I arch a brow. “Human Swiss Army knife?”
“You’ve got tools for everything. Secrets. Skills. Muscles. Probably hidden lockpicks sewn into your pants.”
I don’t confirm or deny that last part.
She shifts, pulling the blanket up to her chest, her body inching closer. Not touching. Just… closer.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
I don’t say anything right away. I don’t trust what might come out. I reach over and tug the blanket higher around her shoulders. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” I say finally. “You’re safe here. With me.”
Her breath hitches. “You say that like you mean it.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
Another stretch of silence.
And then: “Crewe?”
“Yeah?”
“If we weren’t here—if we weren’t dodging rogue drones and hiding in a cabin with a fridge full of evil cheese—would you have kissed me by now?”
I freeze.
She’s not teasing. Her voice is soft. Barely audible.
I turn my head.
She’s looking at me like I’m the question and the answer, like I’m both the problem and the solution. Like she’s not sure which one scares her more.
“Probably,” I admit.
She swallows. “And now?”
I reach out. Slowly. Tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers graze her cheek and she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a second.
“Now,” I say, voice low, “you’re someone I’m responsible for. Someone who’s trusting me to keep her safe.”
Her eyes open again. Wide. Bright. Honest. “But I still want to,” I add, barely above a whisper. “Which is the problem.”
She’s so close now. I can feel the heat from her skin. Her breath fans across my jaw.
We hover there, both of us suspended in a moment that could tilt either way.
Want floods me. Not just the physical kind—though God knows that’s there—but something deeper. I want toknowher. All of her.
Her hand brushes my forearm.
And I almost do it.
I almost lean in and taste her mouth and forget about the job and the rules and the danger outside these walls.
But I don’t.
Instead, I shift just enough to close the space between us without crossing the line. Our foreheads touch. Nothing more.
“I’m still thinking,” I murmur.
