I twist, trying to create space, and for a second—he doesn’t let me. My breath catches again, sharper this time.
“Hey,” I say, lower. “That’s?—”
I don’t finish because something changes. Subtle, but there. His grip shifts—not releasing, not pulling away—but… recalibrating. Like something inside him catches and adjusts, but doesn’t fully let go.
The space between us stays closed. Closer than it should be. Closer than it’s been. I go still. Not because I want to. Because I’m not sure what happens if I don’t.
My pulse is too loud. Too fast. I don’t know what part of this is about the threat above us… and what part of it is him acting on some primal instinct.
11
LEENA
For a moment, there is only his arm around me, his body angled over mine, the space between us nonexistent. The heat of the sand, the pressure of the rock, the weight of him—it all stays exactly where it was, like time stalled the second he pulled me in.
I am hyper-aware of everything.
The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way his grip has not shifted, not even a fraction. The tension threaded through him—not sharp like before, but not gone either.
Held. Not just me. Him.
My breath slows, whether I mean for it to or not, matching the rhythm of his without conscious thought. It is easier to stay still than to test what happens if I do not. Easier to let the moment sit, suspended between what just happened and whatever comes next.
Because something changed. I feel it.
Not just the urgency. Not just the reaction to the sky or the threat moving beyond the dunes.
Him.
The way his grip locked. The way it did not release when it should have.
Carefully, slowly, I shift my hand from where it rests against his arm—not pushing, not pulling away. Just… moving enough to feel the difference. The tension is still there, but it is not the same as before.
Before, everything about him was measured. Controlled. Every movement calculated down to the smallest adjustment. This—this is something else.
Less precise. More… instinct.
The realization settles quietly, but it does not sit lightly.
I turn my head, not enough to break the position, just enough to catch the edge of his profile in my peripheral vision. His focus is outward. Locked on the dunes. Tracking something I cannot see, but he is not entirely there the way he was before.
“There’s nothing above us right now,” I say, keeping my voice low, steady, giving him something to anchor to that is not whatever is running through him. “It moved off. You can?—”
I stop. Because even as I say it, he does not move. There is no shift back to that careful, controlled distance he kept before. He stays exactly where he is. A beat passes. Then another.
And slowly, his grip changes. It is not a release, not even close. More a fraction of pressure easing, enough that I feel the difference between restraint and something else.
I pull in a quiet breath and shift, testing it more deliberately, turning slightly within the space he has created, expecting him to correct it. He does not. I make another small movement, enough to create a sliver of space between us.
His hand tightens, not as hard as before, but enough. It is an instinctive response. Unfiltered. My pulse ticks up, because that—that was not controlled.
I still, not because he forces me to, but because I am suddenly very aware of how thin the line is between what he is choosing… and what he is not.
Another second passes. Then, finally, his grip loosens. It is like something in him is pulling back one layer at a time. When the space opens, I step forward, putting a careful distance between us. Enough to breathe. Enough to think. But not far.
I stare at him, but he does not look back. His attention is on the horizon, scanning, tracking, listening for something I cannot detect. The sky above us is quiet. Too quiet. The space between us does not feel any wider at all.
He steps, and we move, but not with the same rhythm as before. Something about it has shifted. It is subtle, but there. The space between us is not as clearly defined. Not the careful distance he kept before, but not the forced proximity from a few moments ago.
