His jaw tightens.
His gaze flicks over my face, my ribs, my bruised jaw, the way I’m favoring my left side, cataloging damage with clinical precision and something rawer underneath it that makes his hands tremble harder.
“I’m here,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you. But I need your permission to touch you.”
The words land harder than the explosions did.
I swallow.
Hard.
“You’re asking consent while actively bleeding in a murder hallway,” I rasp. “You’re insane.”
His mouth twitches faintly.
“Probably,” he admits. “Still asking.”
I step forward.
Into his space.
Into the heat and ozone and smoke and that impossible gravity between us.
“You’re allowed to touch me,” I say. “Now would be super.”
His hands close around my arms like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor me to the physical world.
The bond surges.
Not violently.
Not feral.
Deep.
Grounding.
Like my nervous system just exhaled for the first time in days.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
My forehead drops against his chest plate.
The armor is hot.
His heart is hammering.
Mine stutters into sync with it.
For half a second, the world narrows down to just that.
Then boots pound in the corridor.
Voices.
Shouting.
Orders snapping back and forth in overlapping bursts of panic and command.
