“That is enough for now,” he says.
I look at him.
“Is it?” I ask.
“For this moment,” he replies.
He steps into my space without hesitation. Not tentative. Not questioning.
His hand closes around my wrist, not roughly, but firmly enough that my breath catches. He draws me closer in one smooth motion until my body meets his, chest to chest, the heat of him immediate and undeniable.
“You think too much,” he murmurs.
“I have to.”
“Not now.”
The words aren’t an order.
They’re a decision.
His hand slides from my wrist to my jaw, fingers strong and sure as he tilts my face up toward his. There is no rush in the way he studies my mouth before he claims it. No panic. No frantic need.
When he kisses me, it’s deliberate—slow pressure first, testing, then deeper as I respond. His other hand moves to my waist, spanning it fully, pulling me closer until there is no air left between us.
My hands find the solid line of his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the strength held in restraint.
“Elara,” he says against my mouth, voice low.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
“I do not intend to.”
He backs me toward the interior quarters without breaking the kiss. The bunk is narrow, functional, not designed for anything except rest between shifts. He lowers me onto it with controlled strength, one hand braced beside my head, the other sliding along my hip with slow possession.
His gaze holds mine as he removes my shirt—not hurriedly, not fumbling, but with a patience that feels more dangerous than urgency. His fingers trace along my ribs, up the curve of my waist, mapping me as if committing the terrain to memory.
“You are certain,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
“Even with threat active.”
“Yes.”
His mouth moves along my neck, teeth grazing just enough to make my breath hitch. His weight settles over me, solid and grounding, not crushing but unmistakably dominant.
I slide my hands down his back, feeling the ridged muscle beneath his skin, the faint irregularity where the wound still knits closed.
“You’re injured,” I murmur.
“I am capable,” he replies, voice steady.
He proves it in the way he shifts, in the controlled strength of his hands, in the deliberate rhythm he sets and refuses to rush. There is nothing frantic in it. No attempt to outrun time. He moves with confidence, with ownership of the moment, with a certainty that makes my pulse stutter and then steady under his command.
I breathe his name against his shoulder, and he answers by deepening the kiss, by tightening his grip just enough to remind me who he is even when the world isn’t watching.
The outpost hums softly around us, systems steady, perimeter quiet.
