My throat tightens. "I won't?—"
"You might. People do. But I'm still here anyway. Still wanting this even though it scares me. Because you're. You're worth being scared for."
The tarp flaps in the wind. Below us, a car alarm goes off, then cuts out abruptly. Across the gap, Janelle's light flickers.
None of it matters.
All that matters is the warmth of Grath's hand in mine and the raw honesty in his eyes.
"I don't want to lose you," I say.
"You won't."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I'll try. That I'll stay as long as you'll have me. That's all anyone can promise."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
I lean forward. Slow. Giving him time to pull away.
He doesn't.
Our lips meet. Soft at first. Tentative. Like we're both testing the boundaries of this thing between us, seeing if it's real or just adrenaline and proximity.
It's real.
The kiss deepens. His free hand comes up to cup my jaw, his touch impossibly gentle for someone so large. I sink into it, into him, letting go of the tight control I've been clinging to for days.
When we finally pull apart, we're both breathing hard.
The kitten, who apparently followed us up the fire escape without either of us noticing, chirps from its spot near the fish bin. It pads over on silent paws and curls into the small space between our legs, purring loud enough to vibrate the air.
"It approves," Grath says.
"It's biased."
"It has good taste."
I laugh. The sound is light and genuine, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Across the gap, Janelle's office goes dark.
We watch the window. Watch the building. And for the first time in days, the fear loosens its grip just enough to let me breathe.
CHAPTER 8
GRATH
The blueprints are right there. Right in front of me. Through the window. Close enough to touch if the glass wasn't in the way.
Demolition. Complete site clearance. Development timeline. Target acquisition zones.
My stomach turns.
"That's it," Maris breathes beside me. Her binoculars are pressed so hard to her face I can see the indentations forming on her skin. "That's actual proof."
"We need those papers," I say again, quiet but firm.
