“I’m perfect.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into my ear. “You know—for someone who worries about being clinical …”
I tense slightly. “What?”
“You don’t fuck like any nun I know.”
I look up at him. He’s grinning—a lopsided, exhausted, thoroughly satisfied grin.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s the highest compliment.” He kisses my forehead. “Nathan was an idiot. You’re heat and fire. You’re combustible chaos. And you fit me perfectly.”
The last knot of insecurity in my chest loosens. The voice that has whisperedyou’re too muchfor three years finally goes silent.
“We fit,” I agree.
“Package deal,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut. “Me and you.”
“You and me.”
I lay my head on his chest. I listen to his heart. It’s slow, steady, and strong.
I close my eyes. No nightmares tonight. No calculations.
Just us.
TWENTY-FIVE
Jackson
GHOST IN THE MACHINE
I wake,reaching for her.
My hand hits cool sheets. The space beside me is empty, the pillow indented but cold.
Panic spikes, a sharp jolt of adrenaline that overrides the ache in my side. I push up, ignoring the protest of my stitches, scanning the room for threats.
She’s sitting in the leather chair by the window, legs tucked under her, bathed in the gray morning light of Seattle. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts—it hangs off one shoulder, exposing the scar on her collarbone—and typing furiously on a tablet.
The panic dissolves, replaced by a warmth that settles deep in my chest.
She isn’t gone. She isn’t running. She’s working.
I watch her for a moment. The way her brow furrows. The way she chews on her lower lip when the data gets complicated. She’s beautiful in the chaos, but she’s breathtaking in the quiet.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.
“Situational awareness.”
She smiles, her eyes still on the screen. “You’re ogling.”
“That too.”
I swing my legs out of bed. The room spins once, then steadies. The pain in my side is a dull throb now, manageable. I stand, testing my weight.
Functional.
