She holds the look for a long moment. Then she reaches out and wraps her hand around mine where it rests on the stone—not grabbing, not urgent. Just deliberate. A pressure that says: I hear you. I'm not running from it.
"You don't get to carry her and me both," she says. "I chose to get on your bike. I chose to trust you. Whatever happens, that's mine."
"Wren—"
"I mean it." Her thumb moves across my knuckles. "Stop using her death as a reason to hold yourself at a distance from me. It's not protecting either of us."
Something loosens in my chest that I haven't let move in three years. She didn't offer absolution. She offered something harder—a refusal to let me use guilt as a wall.
She swings a leg over and straddles me in one smooth motion, her hands framing my face.
"I want you," she says. No performance, no pivot—still in the same register, still looking at me the same way. "Right here, in the sun. Not to forget any of it. Because I just looked at everything you carry and decided I'm staying anyway."
We manage to get my jeans down enough, then hers—the logistics awkward and frantic. When she sinks onto me, no preamble, just taking what she wants, the sensation rips a groan from both of our throats.
"Fuck, you feel good."
She sets the rhythm immediately. No slow build. Just raw need.
The sun beats down on us, high and indifferent, scorching my shoulders while the mountain wind bites at our exposed skin. I palm her breasts, thumbs dragging over her nipples, watching her arch back. She uses my thighs for leverage, her hair whipping around her face like a dark flag. The position gives me a perfect view—where we're joined, her body taking mine, the play of muscle under soft, flushed skin.
"Harder." Her head falls back, throat bared to the sky.
I grip her hips, bruises surely forming under my fingertips, and meet her rhythm with upward thrusts that shake the breath out of her.
We're not making love. We're fucking on a sun-warmed boulder in the middle of nowhere, and it's exactly what we both need.
Life-affirming.
Primal.
A middle finger to the death hunting us down the mountain.
Her rhythm falters, the slide of her hips changing from a ride to a grind. Close. I work my hand between us, finding the slick heat of her, circling her clit. She comes with a cry that echoes off the granite, her body clamping down on me with terrifying strength. The sensation snaps my control, and I follow her over the edge, pumping into her as she collapses against my chest, my release violent and absolute.
Silence rushes back in.
The wind sighs through the pines below, louder now that our breathing has slowed. Wren rests her forehead against my collarbone, her heart hammering against my ribs. The crushing weight of these past few days lifts, replaced by the heavy, languid heat of her body draped over mine.
I wrap my arms around her, one hand tangling in the damp hair at the nape of her neck, the other tracing the line of her spine. Little aftershocks move through her, vibrating against my chest.
"You okay?" My mouth is close to her hair.
She lifts her head, resting her chin on my shoulder to look out at the endless expanse of pine and granite. "Better than okay. I feel... present. For the first time since the bar."
"Adrenaline crash. It clears the noise."
"Is that what this is? Adrenaline?" She pulls back enough to look at me, those blue eyes stripping away the operator mask I usually wear. "Biology?"
Her lips are swollen, her skin flushed with sun and sex.
"No." The words scrape out rough. "Biology is simple. This isn't simple."
“You’re right about that. It’s the best sex of my life. I’ve never been this insatiable, but then we’ve established you’re a fucking god when it comes to sex.” She traces the line of my jaw with her thumb, touch hesitant, almost reverent. "I don't know anything about you. Not really. I know you carry a gun. I know you havea brother who fishes." Her fingers drift down, stopping at the jagged, raised scar on my collarbone. "Where did you get this?"
"Knife fight. Caracas."
Her fingers trail lower, mapping the terrain of my chest until they find the white, knotted line on my ribs. "And this one?"
