Page 127

The dream is gone, but the memory lingers.

So does the warmth of his hand in mine.

The knock at the door isn’t so much a knock as it is a demand—a rattle that starts at the hinges and ends somewhere behind my teeth. Kang startles; I flinch, then curse myself for flinching.

“Rise and shine, lovebirds!” Rosie’s voice is a battering ram of mockery, echoing down the corridor with all the subtlety of a collapse. “Cleanup crew’s short and Maven says if you’re not out here in five, they’ll send in a bucket of cold water and a camera.”

I swear under my breath, the heat crawling up my neck. Next to me, Kang just grins, unfazed. He stretches, back popping, then rolls his eyes toward the door.

“Five minutes,” he calls, voice still gravel from sleep.

Rosie cackles and stomps away. For a few heartbeats, all I hear is the echo of her laughter and the drip of condensation from the ceiling. I glare at the door, willing it to burst into flames.

“Guess the honeymoon’s over,” I mutter.

Kang props himself on one elbow, smirk firmly in place. “Think we were that loud?”

I shoot him a look. “You were. Sounded like you were strangling a wolf.”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “Just keeping up.”

I groan and bury my face in the scratchy blanket, then kick it off and stand, stretching until my joints crack. The air in the room is stale with sleep, sour with sex and sweat, but there’s something comforting about it—proof that we survived the night, that we’re still here.

I fish my clothes off the floor, holding them up in the half-light. The pants are the same Authority-issue, faded at the knees and frayed at the hem, but the shirt is new—a soft, threadbare blue, probably from one of Maven’s midnight raids on the laundry. I tug it on, then reach for the bandage roll on the windowsill.

Kang stands, naked and unselfconscious, the sheet puddling at his feet. He’s marked up—scrapes on his knees, a fresh bruise blooming on his hip, the bite I left on his collarbone. I let my eyes trace the pattern of faded scars across his torso—the map of a machine that learned to bleed. He notices me looking and raises an eyebrow.

“You want first shower?” he asks.

I shake my head, then motion for him to turn around. “Let me check your back. I saw you hit it on the table.”

He obeys, and I scan the lines of his spine. There’s a welt, high and purple, but no open skin. I trace it with my fingers, feeling the heat of it.

“Nothing serious,” I say. “But if you ever take me on a table again, watch your form.”

He laughs, low. “Noted.”

He dresses, quick and methodical. Authority muscle memory never dies. He pulls the pants on, then buckles the holster at his shoulder, snapping it into place before he even reaches for the shirt. The old blue still fits, and the Authority patch is mostly burned off, but the ghost of it remains—a pale outline, a warning.

I catch him rubbing his ring finger again, absent-minded. I think about saying something, but don’t.

Instead, I focus on the ritual of wrapping my own shoulder, the gentle pull and tension of the bandage. It’s easier than thinking about what comes next.

The silence between us is different now—full, but not heavy. I feel him watching me, measuring the distance between us, and I let him.

“Was last night…?” I start, then stop. Too needy. I rephrase. “Did that help, at all?”

He considers it, lips pressed into a line.

“Yeah,” he says. “It did.”

I nod, relief prickling behind my eyes.

He steps closer, brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers are warm, callused. He hesitates, then kisses my forehead, just once. The contact is brief, but it lingers.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, voice so low I almost miss it. “I’d burn it all for you.”

I want to answer, but the words catch. I settle for pressing my palm to his chest, feeling the slow thud of his heart.