“Tell who?”
“Bash. Elias.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “Tell them I died doing what I loved.”
“Getting shot with a paintball gun?”
“Making you smile.”
I lower my gun and press a hand over my mouth, but it doesn't help. The laugh that bursts out of me comes from somewhere deep in my chest, strong enough that my shoulders shake and I end up leaning against the nearest barricade for support.
“I’m so glad,” Adrian says from the floor, “that my suffering is funny to you.”
“You’re so dramatic,” I manage between giggles.
He opens one eye. The paint on his chest is a vivid blue burst. “I have range,” he says, and the corner of his mouth is doing the thing again.
I drop behind the nearest barrier and laugh until I have to sit down. It rolls through me in waves, impossible to stop once it starts. My gun lies forgotten on the floor beside me, my stomach aches, and I can't remember the last time I laughed hard enough to feel it.
Adrian makes it to the barrier beside me and drops down against it. He sits there and watches me, something intent and unmistakably pleased in his expression.
He looks at me the way someone looks at something they've been hoping to see for a very long time.
I wipe at my eyes with the back of my wrist and try to pull myself together.
Then we play another round.
And another.
He lets me win one of them.
I know because of the way he takes the deciding hit, a fraction of a second too late on the dodge. He could have cleared it.
But he doesn't make it obvious.
He doesn't throw the match dramatically or collapse into another performance. He takes the tag, nods once, and moves on.
I appreciate that more than I can say.
He knows I'd rather lose a fair game than win a condescending one.
Somewhere during the third round, midway through a chase across the center section of the course, I corner him near the far wall. He ducks behind a tall barrier.
I come around the edge grinning, breathing hard, and ready.
Then his scent hits me.
Sweat and the deeper cedar-and-amber beneath it all, deepened by exertion. It's not just familiar anymore. It's overwhelming. Yesterday his scent meant safety. Today it means something else entirely.
My omega surges.
Between one breath and the next, my whole nervous system pivots from exhilarated to urgent. The playful grin disappears into something more complicated without my permission, andmy hands are already on the front of his vest before I understand what's happening.
I use his vest to pull myself closer, and he goes completely still beneath my hands, the same way he did in the kitchen.
I press my face against the side of his throat and breathe in deeply. An unconscious purr slips from my chest.
“Hey.” His voice is low, different from the tone he had moments ago. “I’ve got you.”
My face is hot, not from the flare but from the humiliation of it happening now, here, in the middle of a paintball game while I'm wearing a vest covered in orange paint splatters.
