He sits next to the sleeping bag, and I shift to make room, but there isn't any. We're pressed together through the down fabric, his body heat seeping through.
"Tell me about Tyler," I say, needing conversation to distract from how aware I am of him.
He's quiet for a moment. "Tyler Brennan. Best PJ I ever worked with. Could find survivors in impossible conditions and had a sixth sense for where people would be. Married his highschool sweetheart, had two daughters who look just like him." His voice softens. "He was teaching me to surf. Said I was too rigid, needed to learn to flow with something instead of fighting it."
"Did you? Learn?"
"Never got the chance. Our last mission was supposed to be a routine extraction, a downed pilot in neutral territory. But the intel was wrong. RPG hit us as we were lifting off with the pilot. Tyler was at the door, managing the winch. The explosion threw him back into the cabin, trapping him under equipment that shifted."
I reach out from the sleeping bag, find his hand. He grips it like a lifeline.
"The fuel tank was compromised. I could smell it leaking, and knew we had maybe minutes. The pilots were dead on impact, the rescued pilot was unconscious, and Tyler was screaming. Not from pain—he was telling me to get the pilot out first. That's who he was. Dying, and still trying to save everyone else."
"But you stayed with him."
"I tried to lift the equipment, but it was the gun mount—bolted down, twisted from the impact. I needed tools. Found a pry bar, started working on it, and my hands—" He looks at his scarred forearms. "The metal was already hot from the fire starting in the electrical systems. Skin just... melted off. But I kept pulling, kept trying."
Tears run down my face, and I don't wipe them away. "How long?"
He leans in, and I meet him halfway—but this kiss isn’t like the others.
This one is born from pain and truth and the raw, trembling place he’s kept locked for years.
His mouth meets mine softly at first, almost reverent, like he’s afraid he might break the moment if he pushes too hard. But then I exhale against his lips, a helpless, aching sound, and something in him snaps loose.
His hand slides from my cheek into my hair, tightening just enough to hold me still as he deepens the kiss, slow but devastating. Not hunger—need. The need to feel something other than guilt. The need to be seen, held, wanted… even in the dark.
“Savannah…” he breathes against my mouth, like my name is the first clean inhale after smoke.
I shift into his lap without thinking, knees bracketing his hips, my hands sliding up his shoulders, over the tense muscles of his neck. The moment I settle against him, I feel it—his body surging up to meet mine in a hard, unmistakable response that steals the air from my lungs.
His breath punches out, sharp and involuntary, as if he hadn’t expected the effect I’d have on him—or how fast it would hit. Heat floods through me at the contact, the rigid length of him pressing exactly where I’m already aching. My thighs tighten instinctively, drawing us closer, and his hands clamp around my hips, fingers digging in like he’s fighting the urge to pull me tighter still.
The shock in his breath…
The hunger in his body…
It hits me like a spark catching dry tinder—and suddenly staying still feels impossible.
“This okay?” My voice is low, not timid. Offering him control, not distance.
His fingers flex in my hair. “More than okay.”
A whisper, rough and honest.
The space between us disappears completely. His lips trail along my jaw, slow at first, then deeper, more urgent. Heat spillsthrough me, pooling low and hard, tightening everything inside me. I tilt my head for him, giving him access, wanting his mouth on my throat, wanting him everywhere.
He kisses down the line of my neck, breath hot against my skin.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, voice a low scrape that sends a trembling shiver straight down my spine.
I do. God, I do.
Because he’s doing the same to me.
My hands slip under his shirt, palms meeting warm, scarred skin. His breath punches out at the contact, and he grips my waist, drawing me closer, holding on like he’s afraid I might vanish.
“I shouldn’t want this,” he mutters against my throat.
