Sofia. The name he barely speaks. The wound he carries like shrapnel.
“Diego—”
“I can’t do that again.” His forehead drops to mine. His breath is ragged against my lips, hot and desperate. “I can’t lose you because you decided to be brave.”
“I’m not her.”
“I know.” His voice cracks. Splinters. “That’s what terrifies me.”
I should push him away.
I should be afraid of the violence coiled in his body, the fist still pressed into the ruined drywall, the way he’s shaking with something barely contained.
I’m not.
I’m on fire.
Every nerve ending is lit. Every cell in my body screams for contact—for release—for something to burn off the adrenaline and anger and want that’s been coiling inside me since the moment that door exploded inward.
My hand comes up before I think about it. Fists into the front of his shirt. I feel the solid heat of him through the fabric, the way his body goes instantly still—like a held breath.
I pull.
“Then stop treating me like I’m already dead.”
The words leave my mouth rough, scraped raw by everything I haven’t said.
I rise onto my toes, inch by inch, closing the distance. Not rushing. Never rushing. I tilt my head back, forcing him to look at me. Forcing the choice. My mouth hovers there—so close I can feel his breath ghost over my lips, warm and uneven.
Our eyes lock.
His jaw tightens. I see it. The restraint. The war he’s losing in real time.
He lifts his head a fraction, like he’s about to pull away. Like he’s going to be strong.
Then he exhales.
It’s a hard, broken sound—and that’s when he snaps.
Not soft. Not careful. His mouth crashes into mine like he’s been bracing for impact, like the force of it might knock the tension out of his bones.
I make a sound I don’t recognize, fingers tightening in his shirt as if letting go would send me flying apart.
Heat. Pressure. Need. Want. Each one detonating all at once.
There’s no space left between us. No air. Just the crackle of everything we’ve been holding back slamming together, bodies locked, mouths claiming, the world narrowing down to this single, violent, perfect point of contact.
And for one suspended heartbeat—nothing else exists.
We’re just teeth and tongue and hours of suppressed rage channeling into something physical. Something primal.
He tastes like coffee and fury, and when I bite his lip, the sound he makes vibrates through my entire body.
He growls against my mouth—a sound that’s barely human—and then his hands are everywhere. Rough. Demanding. Yanking my shirt up, palms hot against my ribs, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
I match him. Claw at his hoodie. Rake my nails down his back. He hisses, arches into the pain, then kisses me harder.
“You want to fight me?” His voice is gravel against my throat. “Then fight.”
