“It needs to be reliable.”
“You’re avoiding something.”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Because she’s right, and we both know it, and the thing I’m avoiding is standing six feet away in an oversized T-shirt that keeps slipping off one shoulder.
The silence stretches.
She sighs.
I stand there like an idiot, holding a weapon I don’t need to clean, watching her from the corner of my eye. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she chews her bottom lip when she’s concentrating. The way the lamplight makes her skin glow like something out of a painting.
This is torture. Self-inflicted, entirely preventable torture.
“I’m taking a shower.”
She looks up. Lifts an eyebrow.
“Again?”
“I need to clear my head.”
“You took a shower two hours ago.” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “That’s a lot of head-clearing. Should I be concerned about your hygiene standards, or is this some kind of tactical bathing protocol they taught you in special ops?”
“It’s been a long day.”
“Right.” She laughs, but it’s brittle. Her gaze flicks down my body, lingering where it shouldn’t, then snaps back to my face with something sharp in it. She tilts her head, studying me. “I’m starting to notice a pattern. The longer we’re alone in a room together, the more you develop an urgent need to be somewhere wet.”
“That’s not … It’s not personal.”
“No?” She unfolds herself from the chair. Stands. Takes a step toward me. “So you’re not avoiding me?”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“You’re not running away every time the room gets quiet, and we’re forced to acknowledge that something’s happening here?”
“There’s nothing?—”
“Diego.” Her voice softens. “You’re a terrible liar. It’s actually kind of endearing, given your profession.”
I don’t have a response to that. Don’t have a response to any of this. My tactical training covers ambushes, extractions, and close-quarters combat. It does not cover what to do when a beautiful woman calls me out on my bullshit with a smile that makes my chest hurt.
“Take your shower,” she says. Steps back. Returns to the chair. “I’ll be here when you’re done. Definitely still noticing your selective relationship with personal hygiene.”
I head for the bathroom.
“Tell me, Diego—when you’re in there, pretending your hand is enough … Do you think about how close you just were to the real thing? Or do you have to pretend I’m someone you’re allowed to want?”
I stop at the bathroom door. Don’t turn around. Can’t.
“It’s Halo.” The words come out hard. Military. “You call me Halo.”
Silence. Footsteps, slow and deliberate. Every movement is a challenge.
“Halo.” Her voice follows me like a heat-seeking round. “Halo is the man who keeps his hands to himself. Who builds pillow walls and pretends he doesn’t watch me sleep.” Closer now. Heat radiates against my back. “Halo is the man who’s about to go jerk off in the shower because he’s too disciplined to take what he actually wants.”
My hand tightens on the doorframe. Knuckles bleaching white.
“But that kiss?” Her voice drops, soft and lethal. “That wasn’t Halo. That was Diego—and he wants me so bad he’s shaking with the need for me.”
