Before I can ask what the hell she’s doing, she presses my hand against her stomach.
“I don’t want my old life, Anton.”
My chest goes tight.
She’s still holding my hand there, over the place where something small and new is fighting to live.
“I don’t want the bank. Or Evan. Or pretending I’m fine.” Her eyes lift to mine, sharp, unshaking. “I don’t want safe. I want this. You. Even when it’s chaos. Even when it hurts.”
I can’t breathe for a second. Not properly.
“I shot him,” she says. Voice raw. “I killed a man. For you. And I’d do it again.”
I say nothing. Just watch.
“But that doesn’t mean you get to make every decision for me.” Her breathing is still uneven, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “I‘m pregnant. I know. I heard the doctors.” She pulls in a long breath. “And I’m scared. Terrified, actually.”
Pause.
“But I’m not running. I’m not leaving. So stop acting like you have to trap me here. I’m staying,” she says quietly. “Because I want to. Not because you commanded it.”
Silence.
The monitor beeps. Her pulse under my fingers is still too fast.
But her eyes are clear now. Certain.
“Okay?” she asks.
I search her face. This woman who shot a man. Who’s carrying my child. Who just put her hand over my mouth and told me to shut up.
My mouth curves. Just slightly.
“Okay.”
Her shoulders drop, relief flooding her face.
“But you’re still moving into the penthouse,” I add. “Permanently.”
Her eyes narrow. “Anton—”
“Not negotiable.” My thumb brushes her jaw. “That part stands.”
Her mouth opens—probably to argue—but I’m done listening.
I tilt her chin up and close the distance.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s desperate, aching, full of everything I haven’t said since the moment she pulled that trigger. Her breath catches against my mouth, and for a second, I taste salt. Tears. Morphine. Life.
She’s trembling, but she doesn’t pull away. Her fingers clutch at my shoulder, right where the bandages start, and I feel everypulse of her heartbeat through the layers of gauze. It hurts—Christ, it hurts—but I take it anyway.
Because she’s here. Breathing. Warm. Mine.
She parts her lips, just enough for me to taste her breath, soft and uneven. The smell of antiseptic and her skin—sweet, familiar—burns through the sterile air.
I breathe her in like I’ve been drowning.
When I pull back, our foreheads touch. Her lashes brush my cheek. Neither of us speaks. The machines hum around us, keeping score of everything we almost lost.
