He takes a step closer, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to. I don’t, and that feels like the first betrayal of the night.
“You walked into a bank tied to Markov’s name,” he says, voice steady and unyielding. “You triggered a system you know better than anyone. You didn’t call me. You didn’t warn me. Don’t stand there and pretend you don’t understand what that means.”
“I didn’t know you built a trigger into it,” I say, the edge in my voice harsher than I intend. “But I should have.”
His brow tightens. “What are you talking about?” He bends toward me, close enough that the space between us disappears, close enough that I can smell him.
“You scattered searches everywhere,” I say. “You think I wouldn’t recognize the pattern?”
His mouth tightens once before he straightens, putting distance back where it belongs. His hands drop to his sides, palms open, shoulders lowering like he’s forcing control into his body.
“I didn’t vanish on anyone,” he says, voice flat. “You did.”
“Disappearing was the only way to keep you alive.”
“That was never your call.”
“And dragging us back into this was yours?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Because you don’t get to die quietly so I can pretend I’m safer without you.”
The space between us disappears before I consciously register that I’ve moved. Or maybe he has. It doesn’t matter. What matters is how close he is now, how aware I am of the heat ofhis body, the familiar weight of him pressing against mine, in a room too small to step away.
“You’re angry,” he says. “So am I.”
I look up at him and see the restraint in his posture, the way his hands stay open at his sides like he’s holding himself back by force alone. It hits me how close this is to becoming something else, how thin the line has always been between us. My breath catches, and I hate myself for it.
“This is a mistake,” I say.
“You said that before,” he replies. “And you didn’t mean it then, either.”
I shove at his chest, not hard, just enough to make a point. He doesn’t move. The solid reality of him under my hands pulls something loose in me that I’ve kept locked down for years.
“Stop,” I tell him, because if I don’t say it out loud, I won’t even pretend I’m trying.
He doesn’t touch me. That’s worse.
“Tell me to leave,” he says. “And I will. Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll walk out and take the next threat with me.”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
What I want is tangled up with everything I’ve lost and everything I’m still fighting to keep. I want him because he’s dangerous and familiar and because some part of me never stopped measuring the world by the distance between us.
“I hate that you found me,” I say.
“I know.”
“I hate that I feel safer with you here.”
“I know that too.”
My hands are still on his chest. I can feel his heartbeat under my palms, steady and controlled.
“You don’t get to fix this with sex,” I say, because someone has to.
“I’m not trying to fix anything,” he answers. “I’m standing where I always have.”
The honesty in that cracks the last of my control. I step into him instead of away, my forehead pressing briefly to his chest like I need the contact to stay upright. His breath shifts, the first real sign that he’s affected too.
