"I've never been rational about you. Not since the moment I caught you in that office. Not since I decided to keep you instead of sending you back or killing you or doing any of the smart, strategic things I should have done." I pulled him closer. "I'm obsessed with you, Stefan. Completely. Irrationally. In ways that probably make me a terrible partner and definitely make me a liability to the Vitales. But I don't care. You matter more."
"I shouldn't matter more than your safety—"
"But you do." I cupped his face. "You do. And if that scares you, if that's too much, tell me now. But don't run because you think I don't understand the risks. I understand them perfectly. I'm choosing you anyway."
We stared at each other.
Stefan's jaw was tight. His eyes fierce. "This is so fucked up."
"I know."
"We're going to get each other killed."
"Probably."
"And you don't care?"
"Not even a little."
He kissed me. Hard. Desperate. Angry and scared and something else I couldn't name.
When we broke apart, he said: "Fine. I'll stay. But if you die protecting me, I'm going to be furious."
"Noted."
We went inside.
***
The safe house was small. One bedroom. One bathroom. A kitchen and living area that were basically the same space. Cozy was a generous description. Cramped was more accurate.
We'd been living together for weeks, but we'd always had work as a buffer. The club operations. Stefan's financial projects. My security concerns. Meetings and obligations and people around us constantly.
Here, there was nothing. No work. No distractions. No escape from each other or the reality of what we were facing.
The first night was tense. We made dinner in awkward silence. Ate at the small table. Cleaned up without talking much.
"How long do we have to stay here?" Stefan asked finally.
"Until Elio traces the threats and we know what we're dealing with."
"That could take days."
"Probably."
Stefan looked around the small space. "Days. In a cabin. Just us. With nothing to do."
"Is that a problem?"
"I don't know." He met my eyes. "We've never done this. Been alone together for days with no buffers. What if we run out of things to talk about? What if we get sick of each other?"
"Then we'll deal with it." I pulled him close. "We've survived worse than awkward silences, Stefan."
But he was right to worry.
By the second day, the enforced intimacy was making things I'd been avoiding impossible to ignore.
We were sitting on the couch—the only furniture besides the bed—when Stefan asked: "How far would you actually go?"
