That is what matters.
The fourth night lodges in my memory like shrapnel.
We are parked in an alley behind a warehouse, waiting for a shipment that never arrives. Bad intel—rare, but it happens. When you're running on adrenaline and stealing moments of sleep, a miscalculation leaves too much time for thought.
The alley smells of damp brick, garbage, and the faint chemical bite of something industrial. A single streetlight at the mouth casts weak orange light over the front of the car; the rest is shadow. It's quiet enough that every distant tire rolling on wet asphalt sounds like an impending approach.
Maksim is angled toward the windshield, eyes fixed on the alley entrance, weapon low but ready. His leg is stiff today—he won't say it, but I noticed how he climbed into the car, dragging the limb like dead weight.
I should be watching the same.
Instead, I am watching him.
The light catches the planes of his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the stubble that makes him look less polished and more dangerous. His mouth sets in a way that holds back pain, anger, and want—all of it.
Want is not new. It has lingered since the shower, the gym, and the cabin when he took control and made me understand what surrender feels like.
But out here—boxed in by brick and darkness and the knowledge that tomorrow is not guaranteed—it sharpens into something almost cruel.
I shift in my seat, and the console bites into my thigh. My body is restless, tuned for violence but denied it. The aborted operation leaves the energy with nowhere to go.
"Maksim," I breathe without meaning to.
He turns his head. And he knows.
He knows because his eyes darken, and his throat works once as if he has swallowed something hot. He has always understood my feelings. The file never needed to teach him how to read me; he learned it by living in my orbit.
"We should go," he says, his voice controlled. "The shipment's not coming."
"I know."
Neither of us moves.
My hand finds the back of his neck as if it belongs there. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, heat that feels obscene in a cold car in a dirty alley.
His mouth meets mine like he has been waiting for permission he no longer needs.
The kiss is reckless, fueled by hunger and relief, a release of three days of tension that we've channeled into other men, unable to afford to expend it on each other.
The console digs into my ribs as I lean closer. His hand tightens into a fist around my jacket. My teeth catch his lower lip, and he makes a small, involuntary sound that resonates deep within me.
We are in public, in an alley, in a city that wants us dead.
I don't care.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, our foreheads touching, both of us trembling on the edge of restraint and ruin.
"We should go," he says again, as if saying it repeatedly will somehow make it true.
"Yes," I reply, keeping my hand where it is. "We should."
Headlights sweep past the alley entrance.
Instinctively, we separate, our bodies snapping back into reality as if the kiss never happened. The car passes—no brakes, no slowing. Probably just a civilian. Probably nothing.
My heart takes longer to settle than it should.
I start the engine anyway, my pulse racing, and as I pull out, I notice it—the small black dome at the corner of the warehouse. A security camera with a steady red light.
