Always protective.
But I know now—it’s notordersdriving that.
“Power loss?” I ask, squinting at the red wash of light.
“System-wide,” he murmurs, eyes still scanning. “Brief. Controlled.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
His voice is taut.
And yet he doesn’t leave.
He should. To check nodes. To report. To recalibrate.
But he stays.
I stand slowly.
We’re bathed in red now—blood-colored light curling around the edge of his jaw, softening nothing, sharpening everything.
The shadows between us seem alive.
He looks at me. Full-on.
And I can’tbreathe.
Something tight coils under my ribs. Not fear. Not anymore.
“Why me?” I whisper.
He doesn’t blink.
“I don’t know,” he says.
His voice is rough now. Less clipped. Something’s cracking.
“But everything in me reacts when you breathe.”
Time stops.
Literally.
For one beat, there’s no sound. No movement. Just that single sentence thudding in my chest like a detonator that forgot to finish the job.
He steps forward—just one slow, heavy movement.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
I forget how to stand.
He’s close enough to touch.
I tilt my chin up.
Our breath syncs.
