He could try.
Zach brought his hand up to cup her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing. When they opened again, they were dark with emotion and want and something deeper he wasn’t quite ready to name.
“Emma,” he said. Just her name, but it held everything he couldn’t yet put into words.
She understood.
She moved closer, and Zach met her halfway. The kiss was different from their first—less desperate, less driven by urgency or fear. This was slower. Deeper. A confirmation rather than a question.
Her lips were soft on his, warm and certain. Her hand slid up to his shoulder, steadying herself as she leaned closer. His other hand slipped under her shirt to her waist, his thumb brushing over her silken skin, feeling the solid reality of her beneath his palm.
Alive. Safe. Here.
When they broke apart, it was only far enough to breathe. Emma’s forehead rested against his, their breath mingling in the small space between them.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “About me?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
There was no rush this time. No desperation. Only the quiet certainty of being here—together. Of choosing this despite the complications, the danger, everything that made it terrifying.
Emma shifted closer, and Zach drew her fully into his arms. His body protested the movement—muscles still recovering, energy still depleted—but he didn’t care. This mattered more than the pain. She mattered more than the pain.
They lay facing each other, close enough for him to count the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. His hand traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulder. Notpossessive. Reverent. Learning the geography of someone he’d been struggling not to want for weeks.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” Emma murmured, her palm flat against his chest, over his heart.
“You’re not. You won’t.”
“Your injuries?—”
“Are healing.” He caught her hand, holding it in place on his chest so she could feel the steady beat beneath. “I’m okay. I promise. Just a bit stiff.”
She studied him for a long moment, the same assessing expression she had when she was trying to determine if someone was telling her the truth. Then she nodded, seemingly satisfied.
“Okay,” she said.
Zach kissed her again, slower this time. Savoring. His hand slid into her hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands that had escaped her knot. She made a soft sound into his mouth, and it resonated through him like a tuning fork.
Emma’s fingers traced a scar on his shoulder—an old bullet wound from years ago. A knife scar on his ribs. She wasn’t asking questions, just acknowledging. Accepting every part of him, even the damaged parts.
“You’re thinking too much,” she said against his mouth.
“How can you tell?”
“You get this look. Like you’re running threat assessments in your head.”
She wasn’t wrong. Force of habit, that constant analysis. Looking for danger, for problems, for reasons why this couldn’t work.
“Stop it,” Emma said, but there was warmth in her voice, no edge.
“Stop what?”
“Looking for reasons to push me away.” She pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “I’m here. I’m staying. Accept it.”
Zach blew out a long breath, deliberately releasing the tension he’d been holding. The need to control everything, to plan for every contingency, to maintain perfect awareness of every threat.
For once—just this once—he let it go.
