The storm outside had eased into a gentle drizzle by the time Cyrus stepped back. Just a few inches. Just enough for oxygen to return to my lungs… but not enough to stop the pull between us from humming like a live wire.
He let his hand fall from my cheek, slow, lingering, like it physically hurt him to stop touching me.
I hated how much I felt the absence.
He took a shaky breath the kind of breath that didn't belong on Cyrus Hale and turned away like he needed the space to reboot his entire operating system.
I slid off the table, legs still a little unsteady, though I'd die before admitting that.
He turned around again, and the look on his face was something in between determination, fear, and the dawning realization that he couldn't shove everything back into the neat, tidy box he'd kept labeled "feelings: deal with never."
"Sienna," he said, and I swear my name had never sounded the way he said it just then soft, reverent, almost like a confession. "We need to talk."
"About what?" I asked, even though I already knew. Even though my pulse had jumped like I'd been plugged into a socket.
He almost smiled a small, helpless thing.
"Everything I've been avoiding," he said. "Everything you've been pretending not to see."
I folded my arms. It was either that or reach for him like some reckless idiot.
"Cyrus, we just survived an ambush. Maybe don't make big emotional declarations while the adrenaline is still tap dancing in your veins."
He stepped closer again not as close as before, but close enough that my breath caught.
"This isn't adrenaline," he said quietly. "And you know it."
God. Annoying, perceptive man.
Before either of us could say anything else, the door creaked open.
Damien's head popped in, eyes bouncing between us like he'd walked in on something illegal.
"…should I come back?" he asked slowly.
"No," I said at the same time Cyrus said, "Yes."
We stared at each other. Damien blinked, decided we were hopeless, and muttered, "Right. I'll… be outside. Again. For the third time."
The door shut.
Cyrus scrubbed a hand down his face. "He's never letting us live that down."
"He's going to make a group chat solely to bully us."
A tiny laugh escaped him soft, disarmed, real.
And it did something to me.
He looked at me again, calmer now. "You're not fine," he said quietly. "Your hands are shaking."
I glared at them like that would make them stop. "They'll pass."
He came closer, slower this time, gentler, and took my hands in his without asking. His thumbs brushed over my knuckles in slow, grounding circles. It was ridiculous how quickly that steadied me like he was some kind of human tranquilizer.
"I can't lose you," he said, voice a low rumble, honest in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. "Not to them. Not to a bullet. Not to your stubborn need to do everything alone."
I swallowed. "You won't."
"You can't promise that," he said. "But you keep trying anyway."
I didn't respond. Couldn't.
Instead, he did something I wasn't ready for.
He lifted my right hand.
Turned it gently.
And pressed his lips to the inside of my wrist soft, warm, lingering just a little too long.
My heart stuttered.
"Cyrus…"
"That wasn't adrenaline either," he murmured against my skin.
Every nerve in my body short-circuited.
"You should rest," he said, finally letting my hand go and the warmth went with it. "You took the worst of that blast. You might not feel it yet, but you will."