“Stars—” I grunt. “Careful?—”
She doesn’t listen.
She hugs me like she’s been holding herself together with duct tape and spite and it just gave out. Her face buries against my chestplate and I feel the hitch in her breathing, the way her shoulders shake.
I wrap my arms around her, bouquet flaring dangerously close to her back.
“Easy,” I murmur, shifting it out of the way. “I’ve got you.”
She squeezes tighter.
I hear a faint crack.
Something in my ribs protests.
Worth it.
“You’re late,” she whispers.
The words slice straight through me.
“I was early to war,” I say quietly. “On time for you.”
She pulls back just enough to look up at me, eyes bright and furious and wet all at once.
“You broke rules,” she accuses.
“Several.”
“You scared people.”
“Frequently.”
“You’re impossible.”
I grin. “Famously.”
She laughs then—half sob, half relief—and presses her forehead into my chest again.
“Come inside,” she says. “Before you set the hallway on fire.”
I step in, the door sliding shut behind us with a soft thrum that feels like sealing a vault.
The apartment looks the same.
Cleaner. Calmer. Lived-in.
Her scent hits me immediately and my second heart stutters like it’s forgotten how to behave.
She takes the bouquet from me carefully, eyeing the flames.
“They’re going to burn something,” she says.
“Probably.”
She snorts and sets them in a heat-resistant container on the counter just as one flares brightly enough to make the lights flicker.
“Of course you brought explosive flowers,” she mutters. “Normal men bring roses.”
