And because my body doesn’t want to stop.
Sierra blinks up at me, dazed. Her lips are flushed. Her breathing uneven.
Her eyes look darker now, blue turned stormy.
She swallows hard, and her throat moves under my gaze.
I force myself to step back. Not far. Just enough to give her space.
“Breathe,” I tell her.
She sucks in air like she forgot she had lungs.
I keep my voice low. “You did good.”
Her cheeks go pink, and I don’t know if it’s fear or the kiss, but it punches something hot through my chest anyway.
We don’t talk about it in the stairwell. Not yet. We move.
Down the stairs, quiet, quick. I keep my body between her and any open space. I keep my hand hovering close to her back, not touching unless I have to.
The front door of the building is in sight when Gray’s voice cuts in again.
“Gray,” I murmur, “front exit clear?”
“Clear,” he says. “No one posted outside. Move.”
We exit into the Austin heat.
It hits like a slap. Humid and loud, traffic noise and distant music and the normal world continuing like nothing is happening.
My truck is parked where I can see it from the door. Old habit. Always park for the escape, not the arrival.
I guide Sierra to the passenger side, open the door, and watch her climb in.
She moves like her legs aren’t fully hers yet.
I shut the door, circle the hood, and get in.
Only when the locks click and the cab seals around us do I let myself look at her properly.
Sierra is staring straight ahead, hands clenched in her lap. Her bag is wedged against her thigh like she’s afraid it might vanish. Her chest rises and falls too fast.
I see it all in her face. The grief. The shock. The sheer effort it’s taking not to fall apart.
And I see something else too.
Confusion.
Because she’s trying to act like that kiss didn’t happen. Like it was just a tactic. Like she didn’t feel it.
She felt it.
So did I.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
I clear my throat. “I had to do that.”
