“Yeah,” I say, though I don’t sound convincing even to myself.
He steps closer. Not looming. Not smirking. Just... there. Solid. Unshaken. A living wall of protection with golden eyes that flick from me to the rooftops, always scanning.
His forearm is bare—his gauntlet retracted from the elbow down, probably to make it easier to draw his weapon faster. My fingers brush against it without thinking, needing to anchor myself to something that isn’t spiraling.
It’s warm. Not just body heat warm—alivewarm. The kind of warmth that hums under your skin and stays there, even after you’ve stepped away. Which I do. Immediately.
Like I’ve just touched a plasma coil.
He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me with that same unreadable look. Not teasing. Not condescending.
Real.
“Thanks,” I mutter, stepping back, trying to recalibrate my entire internal architecture.
He grins. Of course he grins. “Told ya I was good.”
And that stupid, smug, cocky curve of his mouth shouldn’t affect me. But it does. It rattles loose something I wasn’t ready for. Something that’s been building—slow and quiet—beneath the annoyance and sarcasm and passive-aggressive breakfast arguments.
I don’t say anything else. I just keep walking. Not because I want to, but because if I stand there one second longer, I might do something reckless. Like lean in. Like ask him to say it again, softer this time.
By the time we get back to the loft, I’m a mess.
Not a visible one, of course. I’ve perfected the art of emotional armor. My face says “cool and in control,” even as my insides tangle themselves into knots. Voltar does a full sweep of the place before I even get the lights on, his weapon drawn like he expects Tugun to be crouched behind the couch with a couture flamethrower.
“Clear,” he calls out.
“Good to know,” I reply, dropping my bag on the table with a thud that sounds way too loud in the quiet.
I walk straight to the bathroom, lock the door, and grip the sink like it’s going to float away. My reflection stares back at me—wide-eyed, flushed, jaw tight. I splash cold water on my face, hoping it’ll shock some sense into me. It doesn’t.
I don’t know how long I stand there, bracing against my own spiraling thoughts. Long enough for the adrenaline to fade. Long enough for my body to remember it almost got turned into street paste earlier. But instead of fear, all I feel is… electricity.
Not the threat of death.
The way he looked at me.
The way he moved—how fast, how fierce, how deliberate. Like I wasn’t just someone he was protecting, but something important. Precious, even. I can’t stop picturing his hand on my waist. The way he pulled me behind him. The sound of his voice—softer than I’ve ever heard it.
Stars.
I dry my face and step out.
Voltar’s in the kitchen now, fiddling with a kettle that is one hundred percent not compatible with Vakutan claw anatomy. He grunts and slams the lid down with more force than necessary.
“You want tea or…?” he asks, glancing at me.
The image of him smashing a sniper while balancing a tea strainer is almost too much.
“I’m good,” I say, folding my arms across my chest like a barrier. “Didn’t know you were the hot beverage type.”
He shrugs. “Caffeine helps with combat readiness.”
“Of course it does.”
He pours himself a cup with all the grace of a bear trying to perform ballet. The cup creaks in protest as he lifts it to his lips. His pinkie is sticking out. Whether it's on purpose or just bad design, I can’t tell.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again. Not pressing. Just… asking.
