She wrinkles her nose but gets up, the sleeping bag wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. The small space means she has to brush past me to get to the food, and the contact is electric.
She smells like sleep and jasmine under the fear-sweat, and I have to focus on the tree line to keep from pulling her against me.
"Beef stew or chicken teriyaki?" she asks, examining the MREs with skepticism.
"Beef stew's from 2019, chicken's from 2020."
"So they're both terrible."
"Pretty much."
She tears open the beef stew with the kind of resignation that comes from having no better options. While it heats, she finger-combs her hair, trying to restore order.
The domestic normality of it—a woman fixing her hair in the morning—clashes with the rifle in my hands and the fact that we're being hunted.
"You're staring," she says without looking at me.
"Scanning for threats."
"Inside the tower?"
"You could be dangerous." My voice is rough as I watch her across the dim shelter, the morning light filtering through the cracks like it's trying to chase away the shadows of last night. "You did stab someone with an earring."
She laughs, and the sound transforms the space from a cold, makeshift hideout to something almost like home—warm, alive, pulling at edges of me I thought were long dulled. It's a bright, unfiltered burst that makes my chest tighten, reminding me why I broke every rule for her.
"Any word from your people?" she asks, still smiling faintly as she stretches, the sleeping bag slipping down to reveal the curve of her shoulder.
"Safe house was hit. We're on our own." The words land heavy, the reality of it settling like lead in my gut. No backup, no extraction—just us against whatever's hunting her. I reach down and grab a harness from my pack, the rough nylon familiar under my fingers. "Here, put this on."
"More climbing?" She eyes the harness with a mix of wariness and that spark of determination I can't help but admire.
"Perhaps." I step into my own harness while she does the same, the straps whispering against her legs as she adjusts them.
I double-check mine first—cinching the buckles tight, testing the fit with a quick tug—professional habit dying hard, even with her. Then I cross to her in two strides, my hands steady as I kneel slightly to inspect hers.
My fingers brush her hips, sliding the straps into place with deliberate care, ensuring they're secure, no give, no risk.
She's close—too close for focus. I stand, and I lean in, unable to resist, my face inches from hers.
Our eyes lock, and I steal a slow, languid kiss, my lips claiming hers with a gentleness that belies the fire still smoldering between us. It's unhurried, my tongue tracing the seam of her mouth until she parts for me, a soft sigh escaping as I deepen it just enough to taste her again—the sweetness from sleep, and that underlying heat that's all her.
My hand lingers on her waist, thumb grazing the exposed skin above her waistband, a promise of more when the time allows.
I pull back reluctantly, the harness now perfectly fitted, and watch as she processes it all—the kiss, the isolation, the weight of what's coming.
"They have someone inside your organization," she says finally, her voice steady but edged with the same realization that's been gnawing at me since the safe house went dark.
"Not Guardian HRS. My bet is on the CIA. Either way, we can't trust anyone except each other."
"Do you trust me?" She asks it casually, but there's weight beneath the words.
I consider lying, keeping it professional. But we're past that. "Yeah. I do."
"Why?"
"Every instinct I have says you're exactly who you appear to be."
"Nathan fooled my instincts for three years."
