"You're not?"
"I've been counting since you opened your eyes this morning and told me you meant every word." He's keeping to his side of the spring, arms spread along the stone rim, head tilted back. The posture would look relaxed to anyone who couldn't see the rigid control in his jaw and the way his hands grip the stone hard enough to leave marks. "I'm currently at eleven hours, forty-three minutes. But who's counting."
"We're pathetic."
"We're disciplined."
"Pathetically disciplined." I duck under the water to rinse my hair, and when I surface, he's watching me with an expression that makes the temperature of the spring feel inadequate. Water streams down my neck, my undershirt clinging, and his gaze follows the path with the focused intensity of a male memorising a route he intends to travel.
"You're doing it again," I say.
"Doing what."
"Looking at me like you're planning something."
"I'm always planning something. That's how we've survived." But the corner of his mouth curves, and the admission underneath the deflection is:yes, I'm planning exactly what you think I'm planning, and I have been for days, and every detail is specific.
"Give me one."
"One what?"
"One detail. Of the plan." I hold his gaze across the steam. "A preview. Something to think about for the next ten hours."
He's quiet for three full seconds. Then he moves through the water toward me, closing the distance in two strokes, and plants his hands on the stone rim on either side of my shoulders.
Close. Too close. His chest nearly touching mine, the heat of him blending with the spring's warmth until I can't separate the sources. Water beads on his emerald skin, runs along the jade patterns, catches in the blue traceries. His face is inches from mine, and the vertical pupils of those gold eyes have dilated until the gold is a thin ring.
"Tonight," he says, voice dropped to a register that vibrates against my sternum, "I'm going to start with your throat."
My brain empties.
"Here." His finger traces a line down the side of my neck, barely touching. Not a kiss. Not a caress. Amap. "And here." Across my collarbone. "And here." The hollow at the base of my throat where my pulse is hammering hard enough for both of us to see. "I'm going to follow every path I've been watching you touch when you're nervous, every place you press your fingers when you're thinking, every spot where your skin flushes when you're flustered."
"Horgox—"
"You asked for one detail." His mouth is beside my ear now, breath hot against wet skin. "This is one detail. I havemanymore. But the rest, little flare, you'll have to experience in person."
Then he pushes off the wall and glides back to his side of the spring like he hasn't just short-circuited my entire nervous system with a traced line and a murmured promise.
"That," I manage when speech returns, "was cruel."
"That was a preview." Entirely too pleased with himself, the jade in his markings broadcasting smug satisfaction so vivid I can read it across the steam. "You wanted something to think about."
"I wanted something tothink about, not something that's going to make me non-functional for the rest of the day."
"Then we're even. You made me non-functional for the entire truth fruit conversation." He leans back against the stone, that almost-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Consider it balance."
Snowball chooses this moment to investigate the hot spring, her massive head appearing over the alcove rim with those glowing green eyes full of curious assessment. She looks at me. Looks at Horgox. Looks at the distance between us. Makes a rumbling sound that I swear carries judgment.
"Don't start," I tell her. "We're being disciplined."
Snowball rumbles again, sounding entirely unconvinced, and settles her bulk beside the spring with the air of someone who has decided this is better entertainment than hunting.
We dress. We scout. We check the beacon calibration and confirm transmission parameters. We eat rations from the salvaged supplies and discuss what happens after rescue with the careful pragmatism of two people who are acutely aware that "after" is a real thing that requires planning.
"OOPS extracts me," I say, cross-legged on the cave floor while Bebo runs final diagnostics. "STI takes you into custody for questioning about ApexCorp. We get separated."
"Likely." His jaw tightens. "The data on my implant makes me a key witness. They'll want me in a secure facility for debriefing. Could be days. Could be longer."
