Page 233 of Override

Anything beyond that would be an assumption, and assumptions have an objectively terrible success rate.

Still... Some quiet, reckless part of me whispers something I don't particularly appreciate.

Just...Keep her. Forever.

The thought lands with enough force that I physically flinch.

No. Absolutely not. That would be an alarming thing to say out loud.

Statistically, it would also be an excellent way to frighten the woman currently standing in front of me. She'd known me for around a month. People generally preferred significantly longer timelines before being informed someone hoped they'd stay forever.

I decide, quite reasonably, to keep that particular thought to myself.

Instead, I slide one hand gently to the back of her neck. My thumb brushes her cheek.

"You make it very difficult to think," I murmur.

The corner of her mouth lifts. "I've noticed."

"I don't believe you understand the extent of the problem."

"I probably don't."

"No." I smile despite myself. "Probably not."

She looks at me with that same quiet certainty she'd carried since walking into my room in the middle of the night. Like choosing me had never been complicated. Like staying wasn't something she was forcing herself to do. I don't give myself another chance to overthink it.

I close the distance between us and kiss her. Slowly. Deliberately. Like I'm trying to memorize the feeling before I have to walk away.

Her fingers slide into my hair as she rises onto her toes, and every carefully organized thought in my head dissolves beneath the warmth of her.

For the first time in days...I stop thinking altogether.

When I finally pull back, her mouth is soft, her breath hitching against mine.

Her hands stay tangled in my hair, holding me close. I don't move. I can't. My eyes trace the flushed skin of her throat, the way her chest rises and falls beneath the worn fabric of my oversized shirt.

The heavy duffel bag sits on the floor three feet away, fully packed.

My team is expecting me in twenty minutes.

My brain tries to run the numbers—time to vehicle, traffic variables, mission parameters—but the data fails to assemble. The only variable that matters is standing right in front of me, looking at me like she has nowhere else in the world she'd rather be.

"Keaton," she whispers, her thumb tracing my jawline. "You're going to be late."

"I have four minutes," I murmur.

I slide my hands down her spine, my palms flat against her back, pulling her flush against me until there is no air left between us. I need the physical proof that she's here. That she's safe.

"Tell me what you need before I walk out that door," I say, my voice dropping lower, gravelly and deliberate. "Tell me what you want me to leave you with."

She blinks up at me through the dark lenses of my glasses, her eyes darkening. "You."

A sudden, sharp heat pulls tight in my chest.

I reach down and hook my fingers under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly against my waist. A small, surprised gasp escapes her lips, but she wraps her legs around me instantly, anchoring herself to my frame. Three steps take us to the edge of the bed, and I set her down, crowding into her space until she is completely trapped between my body and the mattress.

I don't press down. I hold my weight on my hands, my chest hovering an inch from hers.