Page 66 of Trust

My hand is in his. The knife’s edge rests against his body, and I’m so aware of him, of every line, every inch between us that isn’t there anymore.

We’re standing too close. We both know it. Realization lands between us like a blow.

He takes a breath, steps back, rolls his shoulders once, as if trying to shrug off a thought.

I tilt my chin up. He’s watching me. My pulse is thudding in my ears now, faster than I want it to.

Whatever’s happening, it’s more than a spark. He hasn’t leaned in. He hasn’t made a move. But the space between us is electric, ready to catch fire.

“Last part,” he says. “Disarming.”

I’m still holding the knife. Before I can react, his fingers close around my wrist and twist. The blade slips free without resistance, and he catches it before it hits the ground.

He doesn’t gloat, just keeps teaching.

“First rule,” he says. “If someone has a knife, you run. Always. Second rule: if you can’t run, make them regret pulling it.”

His tone is dry, but the edge is real. He shows me how to hold a blade in a fight, how to use it to keep distance. How to lose it. How to get it back. It’s close-quarters, chaotic, nothing like the clean, practiced throws from earlier.

He steps in, walking me through it. Blocks and twists follow. Our bodies meet, separate, collide. It’s a rhythm, almost like a dance.

He catches my arm. I spin out. He grabs my wrist, firm but never rough. His breath brushes my cheek as I pull free.

“You’re getting faster.”

“I’m getting bored.”

He grins for a second. Then he moves again, quicker than I can react, a blur of motion in the dim light. Now he’s behind me, one arm around my shoulder, the blade at my throat. “Dead,” he whispers against my ear.

I don’t have a comeback. Not with the way his body presses against mine, his strength pinning me in place.

He lets go. “Again.”

We circle. He lunges. I twist, grip his wrist, the way he taught me. The knife comes free. My heart is pounding.

“Nice,” he says.

We reset. This time, faster. Each time I try to disarm him, I have to step in. I have to touch him. The energy bends. A breath too deep. A pause too long. His hand lands on my waist. His thumb drags, barely there, under the hoodie. The other lifts toward my face.

I don’t know who acts first. Could be both of us. It’s been simmering all day, and now we let it boil over. One second, we’re locked in some choreographed twist of limbs, and the next the knife clatters to the floor and his mouth crashes into mine.

It’s like a switch flips in him, and going back is impossible. There’s no caution now. His lips part mine with urgency barely kept in check. He’s tasting, commanding, imprinting the shape of my mouth into memory, and he intends to make me live every second of it. I’m drowning in him. The world narrows to the electricity igniting where our mouths meet. Every nerve lights up, forming a rush that makes me dizzy.

He kisses with the same unrelenting precision he showed me during our training session, focused and fully committed. In this moment, I’m the center of everything.

Unlike the last time, panic doesn’t rise. Revulsion stays away. This is different. The urge to pull back never comes. Want builds instead. The need to stay, to consume more of him, roots deep. Every part of me melts into it, into him, without thought or hesitation. My body makes the decision before my mind can catch up. I gasp against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop.

When my hands climb up his arms, over the heat of his bare shoulders, he pulls gently at the hem of the hoodie I borrowed. It lifts easily, and I’m in my tank top, pressed flush to him. More of him. Hot, hard muscle against my ribs, my chest, my stomach. I grip his arms as though I might float out of myself completely, surrendering to a force that could ruin me, and I want it anyway.

One of his hands slides up to my nape, keeping me still. His other finds the small of my back, fingers splayed.

My insides flip, a molten ache settling low. My knees almost give out.

Somewhere within the blur of sensation, a thought claws its way to the surface. Chris. I think of his voice, picture his face. In my imagination, there’s a knowing look in his expression, like he’s in on something I’m not.

Guilt flashes cold beneath the blaze. I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t even know what this is or who they are to me, only that they affect the room differently. Cash with his fire and chaos and intensity, Chris with his steadiness and silence and depth.