The safehouse was warmer than the streets, but not by much. Heat came from a single wall unit that clicked faintly, its coil throwing out dry air that didn't quite reach the far side of the room. James closed the door behind us with a quiet finality, his body still angled toward the hall as if he expected the next problem to arrive before we'd even settled.
I leaned against the table, watching him shed his coat in slow, deliberate movements. Every sound felt sharper in the stillness, the low slide of fabric over his shoulders, the faint creak of leather when he flexed his hands.
He didn't say anything, just crossed to the window and checked the street below. His reflection bled into the glass, tall and solid, the kind of presence that felt more like a barrier than a shadow.
"You going to stand there all night?" I asked.
He glanced at me, just enough to show that I had his attention, then turned back to the glass. "Until I'm sure."
"Sure about what?"
"That we're the only ones who know we're here."
His voice was low, almost even, but I caught the edge under it, the one that always came out when his guard was highest. It made the air feel heavier between us.
I pushed away from the table and stepped closer, my shoulder brushing his arm. He didn't move, but the shift in his breathing gave him away.
"You're wound too tight," I said. "And I'm tired of feeling like I'm walking three steps behind you."
His jaw worked once before he finally looked down at me. "You think this is about keeping you behind me?"
"What else would it be?"
His eyes flicked over my face, searching for something he didn't find. "It's about keeping you alive."
The words landed harder than I expected, not because they were new, but because of the way he said them, like they cost him something.
I should have stepped back. Instead, I stayed close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off him, the faint scent of rain still clinging to his shirt.
"You're not the only one who gets a say in that," I murmured.
His hand lifted, slow, until his fingers brushed the side of my jaw. The touch was light, but it pulled the rest of me forward as if he'd closed a distance I hadn't realized I'd been keeping.
"This isn't the time," he said, though he didn't move away.
"Maybe that's exactly why it is."
Something flickered in his eyes, frustration, maybe, or the start of something he didn't want to name. His thumb traced a short, deliberate line along my cheekbone, and for a heartbeat, the rest of the world felt irrelevant.
Then he stepped back, breaking whatever had been forming between us.
"Not yet," he said, voice rougher now. "But soon."
James set the box from earlier on the dresser, his movements precise, almost too careful, like keeping his hands busy was the only thing stopping him from doing something else entirely.
"You should get some rest," he said without looking at me.
"I'm not tired."
"You will be."
I stayed where I was, leaning against the wall near the bed, eyes fixed on him. He knew I was watching, just like I knew he was avoiding meeting my gaze. The coil heater clicked again, and in the quiet that followed, the room felt smaller.
"You're doing it again," I said.
His brow ticked. "Doing what?"
"Pretending I'm not here."
That made him turn. His eyes met mine, steady, dark with something I couldn't read. "You think I haven't noticed every time you've been close to me since we walked in here?"
I swallowed, heat threading low through my chest. "Then why are you acting like you haven't?"
He crossed the room in two unhurried steps, closing the space until I could feel the warmth radiating off him. His hand came up, resting against the wall beside my head, his body angled so I had nowhere to go without brushing against him.
"Because if I stop acting," he said quietly, "I'm not sure I'll want to stop at all."
The words landed heavy, pulling the air tighter between us. My pulse kicked, not from fear, but from the way his gaze had locked on mine, like he was waiting for a sign I wasn't going to give in to hesitation.
I tilted my chin up, closing that last inch between us until the line of his mouth brushed mine, not a kiss yet, just the barest contact. Enough to feel his breath when he exhaled slow and deliberate.
"Then maybe don't stop," I whispered.
Something in him gave, just slightly. His other hand found my hip, fingers curling there with a possession that made my knees want to buckle. He didn't rush. His mouth came down on mine in a kiss that was firm, measured, but laced with the kind of control that promised more.
When he pulled back, it wasn't far. His lips hovered over mine, his breath warm. "This is a bad idea."
"Maybe," I said, "but I think we passed the point of good ones a long time ago."
The corner of his mouth twitched, not a smile exactly, but close enough to feel dangerous. His grip on my hip tightened just before he stepped back, letting the air between us cool again.
"Get some sleep," he said, voice low. "We're moving early."
But as I lay down later, the heat from where he'd touched me refused to fade.
Sleep didn't come. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the press of his hand at my hip, the way his mouth had hovered just close enough to make me ache for more. The city outside was a low murmur, distant enough that the room felt sealed off from everything but the pulse in my ears.
I shifted under the thin blanket, trying not to think about him, and failed miserably. The sound of floorboards creaking pulled my gaze to the doorway. James was leaning there, the light from the hall framing him in muted gold. His coat was gone, sleeves pushed up, and for the first time since we'd met, he didn't look like a man ready to walk into a fight.
"You're still awake," he said.
"So are you."
He stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him. The click of the latch was soft, but in the quiet, it sounded deliberate. His eyes found mine in the dark, holding there as he crossed the space between us.
"Move over."
It wasn't a request. My pulse jumped, but I did as he asked, sliding toward the wall. He sat on the edge of the bed first, then leaned back until he was propped against the headboard, one arm resting across his stomach, the other draped loosely over his thigh.
"I couldn't stop thinking," he said, his tone unreadable.
"About what?"
"You."
The word landed heavier than it should have. I turned toward him, my knees bending slightly under the blanket, our legs almost brushing. He reached out, his fingers catching a loose strand of hair and tucking it behind my ear. The touch was light, but it sent a shiver down my spine.
"You keep getting under my skin," he murmured. "And I'm not sure whether to push you away or pull you closer."
I swallowed. "Maybe you should decide."
He leaned in, his shoulder brushing mine. "Maybe I already have."
His hand slid to the back of my neck, warm and steady, guiding me toward him until our lips met again. This kiss was different, slower, deeper, his mouth coaxing mine open until I could taste the faint trace of coffee on his breath. My fingers found the fabric of his shirt, curling there, needing something to hold onto.
He pulled back just enough to speak against my mouth. "You make me forget everything else."
"Good," I whispered.
He stayed close, his thumb stroking once along my jaw, then down to the hollow of my throat. The weight of his gaze was almost as heavy as his touch, both of them keeping me pinned in place without a single word.
"Sleep," he said again, softer this time. But he didn't move away. His arm stayed around me when I lay back, his body a warm line against mine, steady and unyielding.
For the first time in days, I stopped listening for footsteps in the hall.