It makes it hotter. The restraint. The quiet. The fact that this is chosen.
I pull back first. Barely. Enough that our foreheads rest together. His breath is uneven. Mine is worse.
“If you leave,” I whisper, still hovering close enough to feel the words against his lips, “You will destroy me.”
His mouth curves against mine.
“I won’t,” he says.
It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t sworn on anything. It’s simply true. His hand slides slowly down my back, stopping at my waist. Waiting.
Always waiting.
I kiss him again. This time slower. Deeper. Not to test him or to prove anything. I kiss him because I want to. And that is the most dangerous choice I’ve made yet.
31
TALIA
Iwake slowly, the way you do when your body doesn’t feel threatened enough to jolt you upright.
Warmth comes first. Then awareness of weight. It’s no pinning or heavy, just present. In a moment it resolves to Korr’s arm lying across my waist. His forearm resting along the curve of my hip as if it settled there naturally and never thought to leave. His hand is open, relaxed, fingers loose against my side.
My breath catches.
I don’t move, cataloging the room instead. The cracked concrete wall opposite us. The pale strip of early light sliding in through a broken panel high above. The steady, even breathing of the children in the adjoining space, still deep in sleep.
Then I realize Korr isn’t breathing in sleep. He’s awake.
I tilt my head just enough to see his face. His eyes are open, alert, focused—not on me, but on the doorway, the shadows beyond it, the world waiting outside this fragile pocket of quiet. He looks like he’s been awake for a while.
Watching. Listening. Guarding.
Something tightens in my chest. I shift slightly, the smallest movement, testing whether the arm at my waist will tense or pull me closer. It doesn’t.
His gaze flicks down to me immediately, though, sharp and attentive. When his eyes meet mine, there’s no surprise in them. No awkwardness. No trace of regret.
“Morning,” he says softly.
It’s not husky or intimate. Just his voice, low and steady, as if this is a normal thing to wake to. As if last night didn’t redraw the lines of my life.
“Morning,” I reply, my voice rougher than I intend.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
The air between us feels… charged isn’t quite right. That implies tension that wants to explode. This is different. It’s aware. Held. Like standing near a fire that you don’t intend to touch, but don’t step away from either.
I glance down at his hand on my waist.
He follows my gaze and, after a beat, lifts it—not withdrawing completely, just sliding it away with deliberate care, placing it on the ground beside him instead. The space he leaves behind feels conspicuously empty.
My ankle throbs dully as I shift onto my side, a reminder that the world hasn’t paused just because I allowed myself one unguarded moment. I grit my teeth, ready to mask it, but his eyes sharpen and a low grumble slips from him.
“Easy,” he murmurs.
I stiffen. “I’m fine.”
“I know,” he says. Not challenging, accepting.
