It does. It feels like I've known him forever and no time at all. Like we're running out of time even as we have all the time in the world.
"I'm scared," I whisper.
"Me too."
"Of dying?"
"Of losing you."
My throat tightens. I don't trust myself to speak, so I just hold him tighter, memorizing the feel of him. The weight of his arms around me. The way his breathing slows as he starts to drift off.
I should sleep. I know I should. But I'm afraid that if I close my eyes, this disappears. That I'll wake up and find out it was all a dream, or worse—that I'll wake up alone.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. I sink into sleep wrapped in him, his heartbeat the last thing I'm aware of.
Safe. For now.
I wake to Sawyer's phone buzzing. He's wrapped around me, skin to skin, and for a moment I let myself pretend this is normal. That we're normal people who met normally and have a normal future ahead.
"Yeah," he answers, voice rough with sleep. "Copy that. ETA?"
Reality crashes back. The mission. Prometheus. Mass murder.
"Teams are thirty minutes out," he tells me, already moving. "We need to get ready."
The loss of his warmth makes me shiver. I watch him dress, cataloging new details—a scar on his lower back I hadn't seen before, the way he automatically checks his weapon even half-asleep, how he looks younger in the pre-dawn light.
"Stop staring and get dressed," he says without turning around.
"How did you?—"
"I can feel you thinking." He turns, and his expression is soft. "No regrets?"
"None. You?"
"Only that we don't have more time."
I head to the bathroom, take a quick shower, and dress quickly.
A knock interrupts—three short, two long, one short. Code.
"That's them." Sawyer checks the peephole, then opens the door.
Two men enter, and the room immediately feels smaller. The first is massive—shoulders that barely fit through the doorway. The second is leaner but no less dangerous, with dark hair and scars that make Sawyer's look mild.
"Name's Flint," the blond one says, offering me a hand that could crush mine without effort. "Heard you've been giving Hawk here a run for his money."
The other one takes in the room, the rumpled bed, then turns to Sawyer. "You're supposed to be running a simple extraction. Now, you've got us assaulting Titan International." He turns to me and offers a hand. "Colt. Nice to meet you."
"Gentlemen." Another voice from the doorway, a man with the bearing of someone used to command. "Ms. Cross. I'm CJ, Lead for the Guardian teams. Flint and Frost are feral."
"Frost?" I look between the men.
"That's me." Colt lifts his hand.
Unlike Colt—Frost—who checked out the room, CJ focuses solely on me. Cataloging threats, skills, and potential. Then he nods. "Hawk says you have intel on Prometheus."
Hawk?
