We limp back through three corridors and two maintenance ladders, bloodied and half-deaf and alive.
The safehouse bathroomsmells like antiseptic and iron and the cheap industrial soap I buy in bulk because it doesn’t leave a scent trail.
I sit on the closed toilet lid while Kimberly cleans my wound with hands that are steadier than mine have ever been.
“You should be unconscious right now,” she mutters.
“I’m difficult to kill.”
“I’m going to add that to your dating profile.”
I huff a weak laugh.
She tapes a compression seal over the burn.
My arm is numb and on fire at the same time.
She steps back.
“You okay,” I ask quietly.
She hesitates.
Then shakes her head.
“No.”
I nod.
“Me neither.”
The silence between us feels heavy and strange and charged.
She doesn’t leave.
Neither do I.
“I’m going to say something,” she says quietly. “And you’re not allowed to freak out.”
I snort.
“That’s a deeply irresponsible thing to promise.”
She steps closer.
Slow.
Deliberate.
“I’m choosing you again,” she says. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the ambush. Because I want you.”
My pulse jumps.
Hard.
“Kimberly—”
“Do you want me,” she interrupts. “Right now. Like this. No panic. No instinct. No obligation.”
