"What if we don't?"
"Then we'll manufacture some adrenaline." His grin is wicked. "I have ideas."
"I bet you do."
Dinner is a tiny Italian place where the owner knows Sawyer by name and insists we take the corner booth reserved for special occasions. We eat too much, drink wine that makes me warm, and talk about everything except the last few days.
I learn he rebuilds motorcycles when he can't sleep. He learns I play violin badly but enthusiastically. I discover he reads poetry, secretly. He discovers I've never seen a Star Wars movie, which apparently is a crime against humanity.
"We'll have to fix that," he says, scandalized.
"We'll have to fix a lot of things." I trace the rim of my wine glass. "I don't know how to do normal, Sawyer. Five years of being an analyst, three days of being... whatever I am now."
"You're yourself. Just more honest about it."
"Is that enough?"
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "You're enough exactly as you are."
"You're just saying that because I saved your life."
"I'm saying it because it's true. The life-saving was just a bonus."
We walk back to his apartment—he insists on showing me the neighborhood since I'll be living here. His place is exactly what I expected—clean, organized, with minimal decoration, except for photos of his team and Tyler’s challenge coin, now displayed proudly on a shelf.
"Guest room's yours as long as you need it," he says, suddenly formal.
"Guest room?"
"I didn't want to assume?—"
I kiss him, cutting off whatever noble thing he was about to say. "I don't want the guest room."
"Savannah—"
"We've been through hell together. We've saved each other's lives. We've said we love each other." I frame his face with my hands. "I don't want to sleep alone tonight. Or tomorrow. Or any night if I have a choice."
"My leg?—"
"We'll be creative."
He laughs, dark and appreciative. "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"
"The best kind."
We’re creative.
Careful of injuries but not of feelings.
He maps my body like he's memorizing terrain, and I discover scars he didn't mention, each with a story he whispers against my skin. When release finds us, it's with my name on his lips and his on mine, a promise and a claim and a beginning all at once.
After, tangled carefully around bandages and bruises, I trace lazy patterns on his chest.
"No regrets?" he asks.
"None. Is this what normal looks like for us?"
"Probably." He presses a kiss to my hair. "That okay?"
