Marcus had fallenasleep in the chair again.
Hazel had been watching him for an hour, curled under the blankets while he dozed by the window. His head tilted at an angle that would hurt when he woke. His hand still curled around an abandoned coffee mug, gone cold hours ago. Dark circles shadowed his eyes; he’d stayed up all night watching for threats that never came.
She’d woken sometime around four, and she’d lain awake thinking about the conspiracy they’d uncovered, the way he’d looked at her when they’d finally stopped working, and fourteen days of careful distance. Almost-kisses and interrupted moments.
Maybe she was just tired of pretending.
Hazel was done being sensible.
She padded across the cold floor, the wooden boards creaking under her bare feet. Marcus didn’t stir. Up close, she could see the tension in his shoulders even in sleep, the way his hand had curled around the mug like a weapon.
“Marcus.” She touched his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. “Come to bed.”
His eyes opened immediately. He scanned the room, the windows, the door before he registered her standing beside him.
“Everything’s fine,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “No threats detected.”
“I know. That’s not why I’m asking.”
He went still. His eyes searched her face.
“Hazel…”
“Come to bed.”
He stood slowly, letting her lead him across the room. This time, when they lay down, neither pretended to keep a distance. Hazel turned toward him, and he turned toward her, and suddenly the inches between them felt like both too much and not enough.
Their magic hummed in the space between them, warm light flickering at the edges of her vision where his power brushed against hers.
“We should…” Marcus started.
“No.”
“No?”
“No more should.” She touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble that had grown in overnight. “No more pretending this isn’t happening.”
“Hazel, if we…”
“I know.” She moved closer, close enough to feel his breath on her lips. “I know exactly what this means.”
“Seven days.”
“I don’t care.”
“Neither do I.” His hand tangled in her hair, gentle and desperate at once. “God help me, neither do I.”
The first kiss was soft, questioning. A final chance to pull back. Hazel sighed into it.
The second kiss was hungry. Marcus rolled them, pressing her into the mattress as their magic flared bright between them, purple and gold light dancing across the ceiling like aurora.
“I want you,” she gasped against his mouth. “Marcus, I want…”
“Thank god.” His voice was ragged. “Every night, every damn minute—I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think straight…”
She kissed him again. Words could wait. Now she wanted touch, taste, the solid reality of him after weeks of wanting.
They moved together with surprising tenderness. Clothes disappeared with careful hands: her shirt over her head, his following, the rustle of fabric hitting the floor. Marcus traced her shoulder with his lips, mapping the freckles there, and she discovered the scar along his ribs, a thin silver line that told a story she’d ask about later.
