"Like this."
He kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't romantic. It was two broken things pressing their sharp edges together to see if they'd fit. His mouth was demanding, controlled, breaking apart my responses to catalogue them like evidence. I kissed back with three years of emptiness, trying to remember what want felt like outside of violence.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"That was inappropriate," I said.
"Extremely." He didn't let go of my face. "Want me to apologize?"
"No." I gripped his wrists, not pulling away but not pulling closer. "I want you to explain what this is. What you think this is."
"Recognition." His thumbs stroked my cheeks. "Two predators acknowledging they hunt better together than alone."
"Is that all?"
"No." He pulled me against him, and I let him, curious about the solid warmth of another body. "It's also wanting. Which I thought I'd forgotten how to do."
"Wanting is dangerous." But I didn't move away. "It creates weakness. Vulnerabilities."
"Everything creates vulnerabilities. The trick is choosing which ones are worth it." His arms wrapped around me, and I realized I was shaking. "When's the last time someone held you? Not restrained, not positioned. Just held?"
"Gabriel. The night before he left." The memory hurt, but Nathan's arms made it bearable. "Said I was perfect. Said I was ready. Held me all night like he was memorizing me."
"How long ago was that, Bunny?"
"Six months, two weeks, three days." I pressed my face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Steady, controlled, alive. "This is probably a mistake."
"Probably." He rested his chin on my head. "But I'm excellent at making productive mistakes."
"What happens Tuesday? After the Volkovs?"
"We'll find more patterns. Follow more threads." His hand stroked down my spine. "Your wall needs updating anyway. I have resources you don't, contacts in places that stayed dark even when I had a badge."
"You want to partner with me."
"I want to see where this goes. The work and... this."
I pulled back enough to see his face. "I don't know how to be with someone. Not without programming, not without specific parameters."
"Neither do I. Not anymore." He smiled, and it was almost soft. "Maybe that makes us perfect for each other."
"Or perfectly wrong."
"Only one way to find out."
I studied him—this beautiful, dangerous man who'd seen me covered in blood and offered to help. Who carried his own ghosts and fury and channeled them into the same dark work that consumed me. Who kissed like he was solving a case and held like he was preserving evidence.
"Fine," I said. "Partners. Provisionally."
"What are the provisions?"
"Don't get in my way during work. Don't touch my wall without permission. Don't try to fix me." I paused. "And don't leave without saying goodbye. I hate that."
"Agreed. My provisions: Don't lie to me, even small lies. Don't take unnecessary risks alone. Don't disappear without word." He touched my face again. "And let me cook for you sometimes. You're too thin."
"I eat."
