Mara
Ethan's apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
The city outside is distant, muted behind glass.
I stand near the table, arms folded, frustration tight but controlled.
"You keep deciding what I can handle," I say evenly.
"I decide what's necessary," he replies.
"That's not the same thing."
He takes a step toward me.
"Sometimes it is."
My chin lifts.
There's no fear in me.
Only challenge.
"You don't trust me."
His jaw tightens.
"I trust you more than anyone in that building."
"Then stop protecting me like I'm fragile."
I step forward.
One step.
Now we're close enough that I can feel his breath.
"You don't get to control this too," I say quietly.
The word this hangs between us.
Not Kore.
Not the mission.
Us.
He exhales slowly.
"Careful."
I don't move back.
Instead—
I place my hand flat against his chest.
Steady.
Testing.
"I'm not the one holding back."
That's the spark.
His hand closes around my wrist.
Not harsh.
Firm.
He pulls me the remaining inch.
The kiss isn't gentle.
It's controlled force.
Months of restraint snapping in a single breath.
My back meets the wall softly.
His hand slides to my waist.
My fingers grip his shirt.
Heat.
Breath.
The kind of silence that roars.
And then—
He stops.
Forehead pressed to mine.
Breathing hard.
Eyes still closed.
"If you keep challenging me like that," he says roughly, "I won't stop next time."
I don't pull away.
My pulse is racing.
"So don't."
The air tightens again.
But this time—
He steps back.
Not far.
Just enough to break contact.
My lips are still parted.
Breathing uneven.
His hand lingers at my waist a second too long before he drops it.
Neither of us speaks.
The silence is heavier than the argument was.
I study him carefully.
Not shaken.
Not regretful.
Just aware.
"You don't get to decide how far this goes alone," I say softly.
There's no anger in it.
Just truth.
His eyes darken slightly.
"And you don't get to pretend you don't know exactly what you're doing when you push me."
That lands.
I don't deny it.
Don't look away.
The air between us is charged, stretched thin.
He runs a hand through his hair — the only visible crack in his composure.
"We have work in the morning," he says finally.
Professional.
Deliberate.
Distance as discipline.
I almost smile.
Almost.
"Of course we do."
I walk past him.
Close enough that my shoulder brushes his chest intentionally.
Not an accident.
A reminder.
He doesn't stop me.
Doesn't reach.
But his jaw tightens.
The door closes behind me.
The hallway is quiet.
For a moment—
I lean back against the wall.
Just for a second.
My breath stutters once.
My fingers lift to my lips before I can stop them.
Not regret.
Not doubt.
Fear.
Because he stayed.
Because he wanted me.
And that makes me vulnerable in ways bullets never could.
I straighten.
Compose myself.
Walk toward the elevator like nothing happened.
But something shifted in that room.
And I don't think either of us can pretend otherwise.