Page 165 of Only the Hunter

“I know.” Her hand stills. “That’s what I can’t get past.”

She looks up at me. Not accusation. Something rawer than that—the particular expression of someone who has just understood the full cost of something they thought they already understood.

“You were bleeding,” she says. “And you stayed.”

“There wasn’t a version of going dark that helped you.”

“I know that too.” Her voice breaks slightly, and she doesn’t try to hide it. “I keep picturing you on that pavement, alone, still talking to me like nothing was wrong, and I wasn’t there, and I didn’t know, and I hate that I didn’t know.” Her palm presses against my sternum, right over my heart. “I’m not thanking you. Or, maybe I am. I just need you to understand that I know exactly what it cost you. All of it.”

The ache deep in my chest loosens—the thing I’ve been holding since the pavement, the same question I couldn’t answer alone that night: whether staying quiet, whether choosing the mission over telling her, was the right call or just the easiest lie to justify with a gun and a comm line.

She’s not telling me I made the right choice.

She’s telling me she sees the choice clearly. That she knows what it required.

That’s different.

I lift my good hand and rest it at her waist. Not pulling. Just anchoring.

“You kept talking,” I say.

“You kept directing.”

“That’s what we do.”

Her mouth curves—not quite a smile, something more private than that.

“That’s what we do,” she agrees.

Atlas hops onto a table that allows him a view of the space. The refrigerator hums. Outside, most of the windows across the way have gone dark. Only a few remain lit, holdouts against the hour.

Evie’s hand slides from my hold to my chest. Over my heart.

Her palm is warm.

“You did everything right today,” I say quietly. “You backed a group of powerful men, starting with a colleague, into a corner they won’t get out of. Proved actions receive consequences.”

She watches me carefully.

“You don’t need me in front of you.”

“No.”

“But you don’t have to walk alone either. Neither do I.”

I know exactly where this goes. I’ve known for longer than I’ve admitted. She’s it for me.

Her eyes, incredibly dark in the dim light, stay locked on mine. Not tentative or questioning in the slightest. Certain.

“Good,” she says.

I bend my head slowly.

The kiss isn’t frantic.

It isn’t fueled by adrenaline or relief.

It’s deliberate. Meaningful. Grateful.