She does. Smooth and steady. The bullet slides free with a wet sound, and relief floods through me so intensely I actually sigh.
She holds up the deformed metal, studying it with those analytical eyes. Then sets it aside, already reaching for gauze. I check it, finding it intact.
“Rinse the wound, use the butterfly sutures to close the skin, then wrap it.”
She cleans the wound, approximates the edges, and tacks down the butterfly sutures. When she starts wrapping the wound, she has to lean across me, her body close enough that her warmth cuts through the cold shock settling in.
“Tighter,” I say.
She adjusts. I catch her wrist, guiding the right tension. Our faces are close. Close enough to see gold flecks in her eyes. Close enough to watch her pulse flutter in her throat.
She ties off the bandage but doesn’t pull away. We’re frozen—her between my knees, hands still on my arm, faces inches apart. The factory’s silence presses in, making each breath loud.
“Thank you.” The words come out soft, not my usual tone.
She touches my face. Just fingertips against my jaw, but the gentleness of it cracks something in my chest.
“Nathan was wrong, Talia.”
She goes still, eyes searching mine. Her breath catches. A question in her eyes.
“About everything. About you being too much. Too analytical.” My good hand cups her face. “You’re fucking fascinating.”
Tears gather in her eyes. She opens her mouth—to argue, to deflect, to analyze.
But the tears do it. One spills over, tracking down her cheek, and something in my chest cracks wide open. This brilliant, brave woman who just dug a bullet out of my arm with steady hands is crying because some asshole made her believe she was broken. Made her small. Made her quiet.
She saved my life tonight. Not just with the bullet, but earlier—picking that lock, following every command without question, trusting me completely even when I was bleeding out. And she did it all while believing she’s somehow not enough.
Fuck that. Fuck Nathan. Fuck waiting for the right moment.
I kiss her before she can pull away and hide.
Her mouth is soft under mine, tentative at first, then warming. Opening. Her hands slide up my chest, careful of the bandage, and she makes a sound—half sigh, half whimper—that goes straight through me.
This is what I’ve been fighting since I pinned her against that wall. Since she melted into me when I shielded her from the blast. Hell, since she lay silent and stubborn on my couch with her cold feet pressed against my back.
I pull back before I do something stupid. Like haul her into my lap with one working arm.
She’s breathing hard, eyes dark, lips swollen. One word escapes: “Why?”
“Because I wanted to. Because you’re brilliant and brave.” My thumb traces her bottom lip. “Because watching your mind work is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
A laugh bubbles out, wet and shaky. “That’s?—”
“True.” I pull her closer, settling her between my thighs. “The way you process information, find patterns, solve problems—it’s like watching a supercomputer with a gorgeous interface.”
“Interface?” She’s trying not to smile.
“Beautiful face, killer body, mind like a weapon.” I kiss her again, quickly, before she can overthink it. “You’re the complete package.”
“Nathan said—” She stops, swallows. “He said I was exhausting.”
“Nathan was a weak man who couldn’t handle your strength.”
“He said I approach intimacy like writing a clinical report.”
“Nathan wouldn’t know real intimacy if it bit him.” I tuck that escaped strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t kiss like you’re writing a report. You kiss like you’re trying to solve me.”
