But I don’t do basic math.
The maintenance door is where I mapped it during my initial sweep. Building code requires them on every floor—old locks and easy picks—leading to service corridors that run parallel to the main structure. Most people don’t know they exist.
I slide the pick into the lock and work the tumblers as footsteps grow closer. The mechanism fights me—rusty, neglected. Come on, come on?—
Click.
I pull Talia through, ease the door shut just as boots hit our landing.
Red emergency lighting bleeds across the space, painting everything in hellish hues. Rusted pipes snake overhead. Concrete walls weep moisture. The air reeks of mildew and decay—thick enough to taste.
“Jackson—” Her voice barely a whisper, but still too loud.
I spin, pressing my hand over her mouth. Her gasp warms my palm. She goes rigid, then melts back against the wall. I cage her with my body, shielding her from view of the door.
The curve of her jaw fits perfectly in my palm. Her lashes flutter against my fingers. She’s so close I can count individual freckles across her nose, even in the red gloom.
Boots strike the metal stairs outside. Heavy. Measured. Hunting.
The footsteps pause directly outside our door. The handle rattles once. Twice.
I press tighter against Talia, eliminating any gap between us. If that door opens, they’ll see me first, buy her seconds to run. Her fingers clutch my vest, knuckles white. She’s trembling—whole body vibrating against mine.
But her eyes…Her eyes are steady on mine. Trusting. Even now.
The handle rattles again. Harder.
My free hand goes to my weapon, thumb finding the safety. If they breach, I’ll have maybe two seconds before?—
The footsteps move on. Up to four. Then five. Getting fainter.
I count thirty seconds in my head. No double-back. No second team.
Slowly, carefully, I peel my hand away from her mouth. My thumb drags across her lips—they’re damp, parted, her breath coming quick and shallow. The red emergency lighting turns her eyes into pools of shadow and fire.
We should move. Every second in one place increases risk.
I don’t move.
My hand slides down from her mouth, fingers trailing along her jaw, her throat, coming to rest on her shoulder. I can feel her pulse racing under my palm. Her chest rises and falls against mine, each breath pressing her closer.
“Jackson.” My name on her lips is barely sound, more vibration than voice.
One kiss and she’d melt completely. I can see it in the way her lips part, the way her body angles toward mine despite the danger. Hell, I want it too. Want to swallow those little sounds she makes when?—
Footsteps above. Different pattern. Searching.
“Move,” I whisper against her ear, voice rougher than intended.
She nods quickly, slipping her hand back into mine. Her fingers are steadier now, grip firm. We navigate the maintenance corridor—a maze of pipes and electrical panels, decades of dust coating everything. Our footsteps echo faintly despite our care.
She follows without complaint, though I can hear her mind working. Little intake breaths when she spots something significant. A soft “hmm” when she’s mapping our route. Even silent, she can’t help analyzing.
The corridor opens into another stairwell—service stairs, probably haven’t been used since the last inspection. We descend quickly but quietly. Her hand never leaves mine.
Ground floor. Another locked door, this one newer. Security pins. False gates. My pick slips once. Twice. The mechanism’s fighting me, and my hands are less steady than they should be. Because I can still feel her pressed against me. Still taste the possibility of that almost-kiss.
“Need help?” She whispers it right against my shoulder, breath warm through my shirt.
