Rafa’s hands shake slightly as he unlocks the front door, adrenaline still coursing through both our systems hours after the gunfight. The drive from Brooklyn passed in relative silence, both of us processing what happened, what we survived, and what it means.
Inside, the house is surprisingly warm and lived-in. Exposed wooden beams, stone fireplace, comfortable furniture arranged for actual relaxation rather than strategic positioning. Nothing like the sterile efficiency of his Manhattan workspace.
“Kitchen’s through there,” Rafa says, gesturing vaguely as he drops our gear by the door. “Bathroom upstairs. Everything’s stocked and secure.”
I nod but don’t move, still caught in the surreal aftermath of violence. My hands won’t stop trembling—a delayed reactionto coming so close to death, to watching Rafa become someone different right before my eyes.
“You’re bleeding,” I observe, noting the dark stain spreading across his left sleeve.
He glances down with surprise, as if he’d forgotten about his own injury. “Graze. Nothing serious.”
“Let me see.”
“Petrov, it’s fine?—”
“Let me see,” I repeat, using the tone that brooks no argument. “Sit down.”
He settles onto the couch with reluctant compliance while I locate the first aid kit mounted discreetly behind a landscape painting. When I return, he’s already shrugging out of his jacket and rolling up his sleeve to reveal a three-inch gash along his forearm—deeper than he’d admitted, but not life-threatening.
“This is going to need stitches,” I say, kneeling beside him on the couch.
“Just bandage it. I’ll deal with proper medical attention later.”
“I can do sutures.” At his questioning look, I add, “Part of my training. Father insisted all his children learn basic field medicine.”
“Of course he did.”
I work in silence, cleaning the wound with antiseptic that makes him wince despite his attempts to remain stoic. My hands are steady as I focus on the familiar routine—clean, examine, stitch, bandage. Concrete actions to ground me after the chaos of the last few hours.
“Twelve stitches,” I announce, securing the final bandage. “Try not to do anything stupid with that arm for the next week.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I’m still kneeling beside the couch, close enough to see the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the tension he’s tryingto hide. Close enough to reach out and touch him, which is precisely what I find myself doing—fingertips tracing the line of his jaw where a muscle jumps with residual stress.
“You saved my life,” I say quietly.
“You would have done the same for me.”
“Would I?” The question comes out more honestly than I intended. “I froze, Rafa. When it mattered most, I completely froze.”
“You’re not trained for that kind of situation. There’s no shame in?—”
“You threw yourself in front of me.” The words rush out, carrying weeks of suppressed emotion. “You could have been killed. Why would you do that?”
His hand comes up to cover mine where it rests against his face. “Because I couldn’t watch you die.”
The simple honesty in his voice breaks something loose in my chest—a wall I’ve spent years building, brick by careful brick. Without a conscious decision, I lean forward and press my lips to his.
The kiss starts soft, tentative, a question rather than a demand. But when his free arm comes around my waist to pull me closer, something ignites between us—all the tension, fear, and attraction we’ve been fighting transform into pure need.
I move without thinking, climbing onto the couch to straddle his lap, my hands tangling in his hair as the kiss deepens into something desperate and consuming. His mouth tastes like adrenaline and danger, something uniquely his that I want to drown in.
“Kira,” he breathes against my lips, but whether it’s a warning or encouragement, I can’t tell.
“Don’t think,” I whisper back, nipping at his lower lip. “For once in your life, don’t calculate the risks.”
His laugh is rough, breathless. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s been fighting this for weeks.”
