I hold her there, grounded against me, letting the kiss deepen without letting it tip. I tilt her head back slightly, angling for better access, and when her lips part on a breath I take it as the invitation it is. My tongue sweeps against hers—slow, thorough, reclaiming ground I thought I’d lost.
She tastes like river water and something sweeter underneath. Like coming home after being lost.
Her hands fist in my shirt, yanking me closer, and the sound she makes—low and wrecked—nearly undoes me.
I slow it down. Kiss her deeper, not harder. Take my time because I can. Because she’s letting me. Because months of restraint have taught me exactly how to make this last.
When I finally pull back, it’s deliberate. Controlled.
Her forehead drops against mine. Her breath is uneven. Her hands slide to my chest, fingers splaying over my heartbeat. Testing. Asking.
I want to. God, I want to let this go where it’s heading.But somewhere behind us a tent zipper opens—someone getting up to pee—and reality crashes back.
Kids. Camp. Twenty feet and canvas walls.
Not here. Not like this.
I catch her wrists gently, press my forehead to hers. “Wren.”
She exhales slowly, then tilts her head just enough that our brows touch.
“My name is Irina,” she says.
The name lands between us, weighted and precise.
I don’t repeat it. I nod once, letting her see that I heard her, that I understand what she’s offering.
That’s when I notice her hands are shaking.
Not from cold.
From the same control I’m barely hanging onto.
We sit in charged silence, her tucked against my side, both of us too aware of what we’re waiting for. Every shift, every breath feels loaded.
“Very long night,” she murmurs.
“Yeah.” I press a kiss to her hair. “But when we are back?—”
“When we are back,” she agrees.
We both know exactly what that means.
46
MUSCLE MEMORY (KIERAN)
Cluj greets us with stone and echo.
The building sits just off the square, a prewar Austro-Hungarian presence—thick walls, tall windows, a stairwell that smells faintly of dust and old varnish. A structure made to last and remember. University Square hums below us: bells, voices, the scrape of trams, life layering itself in sound and motion.
We climb the stairs slowly. We’re filthy. Sunburned. Still carrying the Delta on our skin.
I don’t let go of her hand.
Not on the first flight. Not when she fumbles for the keys. Not when the lock sticks and she has to lean into it with her shoulder.
The door opens.
