I grip the bedsheets. Trying to regain control. Trying not to be the bastard who takes advantage of a woman who's vulnerable and scared and—
"Are you dating someone?" she asks.
The question is so unexpected I actually laugh. "No. Haven't dated in forever."
"Why not?"
"The life I lead isn't suitable for dating." I force myself to look away from her lips. "And no woman would want to be with a man like me."
"I would."
My eyes snap back to hers.
"What?"
"I would," she repeats. Softer but no less certain. "Because I'm sure you'd treat her right. And that's the most important thing."
My brain short-circuits. Is she being nice? Just trying to make me feel better? Or is she… Is she actually hitting on me?
Fuck, I have no idea. I'm not made for this. For reading signals and understanding subtext and knowing when a woman is interested versus just being kind.
But I've wasted so many things in my life. Wasted years hiding in Blackwater Falls where only fighting matters. Where I don't have to be human, just useful. Where broken is an advantage instead of a liability.
I'm tired of it.
Maybe Nora's right. Maybe I'm not that bad a person. Maybe I deserve something good for once.
And I want her.
I might have just met her twenty-four hours ago, but something deep in my gut, some instinct that's kept me alive through war and violence and everything after, tells me I'm willing to go to the depths of hell to protect this woman.
So, I accept the risk.
I close my eyes. Something I never do. Something that goes against every survival instinct I have because closing youreyes means losing awareness, losing control, making yourself vulnerable.
But I do it anyway.
And I lean forward.
Whatever I find on the other side—rejection, acceptance, something in between—I'll be fine.
My lips meet hers.
Fucking hell.
They're a perfect match. Like two pieces of the same puzzle fitting together exactly right. Soft and warm and everything I didn't know I needed.
I place my hand on her cheek. It spans her whole face. My hand is that much bigger than her, but she leans into it. Presses closer. The kiss is gentle, and I'm terrified of breaking this moment. Of doing something wrong and shattering whatever this is.
When we finally pull apart, her cheeks are rosy. Flushed. And my chest is heaving like I just went three rounds in the Pit.
"I'm sorry," I start. "I shouldn't have… If that was wrong, I—"
She presses a finger to my lips. Shakes her head.
"You did nothing wrong." Her voice is breathy. "I can't believe it took you so long to kiss me."
*I took so long.* Like she's been thinking about it. Like she wanted it too.
