"You need to come down."
"I'm trying."
She moves closer, forehead nearly touching mine. "Look at me. Just me." I do. Her eyes are calm. Certain. Present. My breathing starts to even. "Better," she says. "Stay with me."
My hand slides to her lower back. She cups my jaw with one hand, fingers sliding into my beard, and laces the other through mine at her side. She kisses me. Hard. Her mouth opens over mine, and the room disappears. My eyes stop tracking the door. My shoulders release and my breath eases until it matches hers.
I let go of her hand, grip her hips, and haul her in, kissing back with everything I've been holding since Chicago. The tension inmy jaw breaks. My pulse starts to settle. When she draws back, her breath is uneven, eyes bright and searching.
"Better?" Her thumb strokes my jaw.
I exhale. "Yeah." She smiles. Small. Fierce. Someone whistles. Someone laughs. I don't care. "Jesus. You trying to kill me?"
Her smile widens. "I just wanted everyone to know."
My mouth curves. "They know."
Her fingers slide back into my hair, nails scraping my scalp. The last tension bleeds out. My spine loosens against the bar.
She stays between my knees, palm resting over my heart.
The noise doesn't follow us home.
I hold the door open and check the street out of habit. The rental two streets south is empty. Has been since Chicago. Harrison's people scattered the same night, according to Arden. The surveillance died with the man who ordered it. The porch is clean. Just our mat and the scuff marks from Sloane's boots.
I shut the door. Lock it. The silence lands.
Sloane kicks off her boots. Three steps into the living room before her shoulders sag.
I'm there before she hits the couch.
One hand at her elbow, the other at her back as she sinks down, breath shuddering out. Head tipping forward, hair spilling around her face.
That's when it hits her. The release. The weight she's been holding since she watched her father die in a basement three days ago. I kneel in front of her. My hands find her knees. She's shaking. The kind that comes after, when the body finally believes it's allowed to stop performing strength.
"You're safe," I murmur.
She nods. Swallows. Looks at me with eyes wrecked and trusting in a way that cinches my chest. She leans into my touch, knees parting for me to settle between them. My hands slide up to her hips.
My thumb pushes the hem of her shirt up. My hand moves on instinct, sliding from her hip to the curve of her stomach, palm spreading against bare skin.
The second my skin meets hers, the thought lands. I want to put a baby there. Her body. My hands. My child growing under my palm. Permanence. A future that belongs to us. Built, not survived.
The idea hits so hard I brace my other hand on the couch to keep from dragging her into my lap and saying it all out loud right now. My thumb works a careful circle against her skin.
Her breath stutters. She stills. Her eyes drop to my hand. Her fingers come down over my wrist. She holds me there.
I look up.
"I want you full," I say, voice barely there. Her breath catches. "With my child." Low. Steady. "I want you carrying what's ours. Built because we decided to build it." Her fingers tighten around my wrist. "I want to come home to you pregnant. I want to watch your body change because of me. Because we chose this."
My forehead brushes hers. "I would burn the world down before I let anything happen to you. To you or what we make together."
She lifts her hand and lays it over mine, holding it to her stomach. "I know," she says. Soft. Steady.
I stay there. My hand over her belly, her fingers laced with mine, both of us breathing through the weight of what's coming.
The house is quiet. The street outside is dark. The porch is empty.
