"That's a cop-out answer."
"I'm not picky." His hand slides down my spine. "But I am hungry."
I order Thai because the pizza place has a two-hour wait, and because pad see ew sounds like comfort food. While we wait, Sawyer flips through channels until he lands on some action movie—explosions and car chases that feel absurdly tame compared to our last forty-eight hours.
"The physics are all wrong," he mutters during a particularly ridiculous crash sequence.
"You're critiquing the realism of a movie where the hero just jumped a motorcycle onto a helicopter."
"Still. Basic physics should apply."
I laugh, and it feels strange. Normal. Like we're just two people spending a lazy afternoon together instead of two people who might not survive the week.
The food arrives, and we eat cross-legged on the bed, containers spread between us. He steals bites from mine even though he ordered the same thing. I pretend to be annoyed. He grins like he knows I'm not.
"When this is over," I say, then stop. Because I don't know how to finish that sentence, when this is over,assumes we both make it out. Assumes there's anafter.
"When this is over," Sawyer says quietly, "I'm taking you somewhere normal. Dinner. A movie. Maybe dancing if you're into that."
"I'm a terrible dancer."
"Good. So am I."
The movie plays on, forgotten. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together, and I'm struck by how easy this is. Howrightit feels to be here with him, despite everything.
Despite the fact that I've known him less than three days. Despite the fact that we're both probably going to die.
I should be terrified. Iamterrified. But not of dying—of losing this. This feeling like I've finally found something I didn't know I was looking for.
"Come here," he murmurs, pulling me closer.
We make love again, slower this time. Less desperate. His hands map every inch of my skin like he's memorizing me. I let myself get lost in him, in us, in this perfect impossible moment that feels stolen from someone else's life.
Afterward, he holds me against his chest, heartbeat steady under my ear. I trace the scars on his ribs—the ones I noticed earlier but didn't ask about.
"Bosnia," he says quietly. "Shrapnel."
"The burns?"
"Different deployment. Different bad day."
I kiss the scarred skin. He pulls me tighter.
The movie has ended. Another one starts—something with subtitles that neither of us read. Outside, the sun sets, painting the room in shades of amber and gold. It's beautiful and surreal and terrifying because I know this ends. Tomorrow, or the day after, this bubble bursts, and we're back in the real world where people are trying to kill me.
Where I might lose him.
Where he might lose me.
"What are you thinking?" His voice is rough with exhaustion.
"That this doesn't feel real."
"It's real."
"I've known you three days."
"Yeah." His hand slides into my hair. "Feels longer, doesn't it?"
