And for a long moment, we didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just breathed.
Eventually, I eased out of her and collapsed at her side. I reached down and pulled the sheet over both of us.
I turned my head. She was looking at the ceiling, lips parted, hair a mess, eyes still hazy.
“You okay?” I asked quietly.
She nodded.
Then turned to me. “That felt… real.”
I swallowed hard. “It was.”
Silence.
The city glowed beyond the glass. Traffic hummed far below.
And somehow, lying next to her, everything in me was loud and still at the same time.
I was supposed to have control.
But with Elena Archer in my bed, I didn’t want it.
We lay in silence for a long time, her head resting on my shoulder, one leg hooked over mine. The sheets were rumpled, our skin cooling in the air-conditioned hush. The city shimmered beyond the window, but in here, everything was slow. Still.
Eventually, she stirred. Just a shift of her hand, tracing a line across my chest with one finger. It tickled a little. I didn’t tell her to stop.
“Your heartbeat’s slowing,” she murmured.
“You got me revved.”
She smiled against my skin. “Good.”
I looked down at her, curling a loose strand of hair around my finger. “You're dangerous, Archer.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
A pause stretched, soft and breathable.
Then, quietly, she asked, “Are you still angry with me? About the article?”
I didn’t answer straight away. Not because I didn’t know—but because I didn’t want to shatter the moment.
“No,” I said eventually. “I’m not angry.”
She tilted her chin, eyes searching mine. “You sure?”
I nodded. “It was fair. Sharp, but fair.”
“That’s rare praise from you, Volkov,” she said, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“You earned it.” I traced the line of her spine, slowly. “Moretti’s the one who should be worried. You made him look like a damn fool.”
Her smile faded a little. “He did that himself when he hit you.”
