It's strange what becomes sacred when the world is trying to kill you.
A warm room.
A locked door.
Water deep enough to float in.
The villa is quiet.
Too quiet.
But Killian says we're safe — for tonight.
One of his old military contacts owed him a favor. Blackmail, more like. The kind that gets you a marble-floor retreat tucked in the hills above Aurelia, with surveillance-immune walls and an Olympic-length pool that reflects the ceiling like black glass.
I swim because it's the only thing that silences my mind.
Stroke after stroke, I drag myself through the water like I'm trying to erase the blood still under my nails.
It's past midnight.
And I'm alone.
Almost.
He's here.
I know he is.
I can feel him watching.
I don't look yet.
I want him to think I don't know.
That I'm just floating. Innocent. Weightless.
Not planning.
Not calculating the exact angle of my turn when I push off the wall and arch back to the surface like a creature born of silence and spite.
I'm wearing black.
The swimsuit is minimal. Not scandalous. But nothing about it says safety.
My hair's slicked back. Face bare. Chest rising and falling in rhythm with the ripples around me.
I swim to the shallow end.
Push off again.
Float on my back.
The light above me flickers.
My eyes scan the dark glass wall beyond the pool.
And there he is.
Killian.
Leaning against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Shirt rolled to the sleeves. Watching me like I'm a code he hasn't broken yet.
I turn my head — just slightly.
"Didn't hear you come in," I say.
His voice is velvet and steel.
"You weren't listening."
I smile.
"Maybe I was hoping you'd join."
He doesn't answer.
I kick into another slow lap.
Let the silence stretch like honey between us.
Then: "You're staring."
"Am I?"
"Don't play coy. You're too old for it."
That gets a small smirk from him.
But still — he doesn't move.
"You came here for a reason?" I ask, flipping underwater and emerging with a slow toss of my head that sends droplets scattering like glitter.
His voice is quiet.
"Just making sure you're safe."
"From what? The tile?"
He doesn't bite.
I swim to the edge.
Rest my arms on the lip of the pool.
Chin on my wrists.
Staring up at him.
"You've seen me in silk. Lace. Bulletproof armor. But water makes you nervous?"
He doesn't look away. That's how I know I'm getting to him.
"There's no protection in a pool," he says simply.
"Then join me."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
His jaw tics.
"I can't."
I exhale. Slow. Measured.
"Because if you get in," I whisper, "you won't be able to get out again."
His eyes darken.
The kind of darkness that isn't empty — it's full. Of warnings. Of want.
Of war.
"You think this is a game, Phoebe?"
I smile.
"No. I think it's a test."
He steps closer.
Not enough to touch.
But enough for his shadow to kiss the water.
His voice lowers.
"Every time you try this—"
"What?" I whisper.
"Every time you try to pull me in, I wonder how much longer I can stand on the edge."
I lift one arm. Drag my finger along the tile. "Then don't stand. Jump."
He exhales — sharp, frustrated, quiet.
"I'm not what you want."
"You keep telling me that."
"I'm telling myself."
"And is it working?"
His silence is louder than anything.
I climb out.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Water clinging to me like memory.
I grab a towel — but don't wrap it around.
I stand there, dripping.
Bare skin. Damp breath. Staring at him like I could strip him down with a sentence.
"You should stop watching me like that," I say.
His voice is hoarse. "Like what?"
"Like I'm your punishment."
"I told you," he murmurs. "You're my ruin."
I walk past him.
Brushing his arm.
No contact.
Just close.
Close enough for his restraint to shatter if I whispered now.
But I don't.
I pass him.
Leave him standing there.
Still dry.
Still breathing too hard.
He doesn't follow.
Not yet.
But I feel him turn.
His footsteps are slow.
Uncertain.
Then stopping.
At the threshold.
My back's to him.
I drop the towel on the floor.
Turn my head.
And say—
"You keep walking away from me, Killian. But every time, it takes you longer."
Silence.
Sharp. Dangerous.
I hear his breath catch.
One step forward.
Then another.
Then—
The door closes behind him.
He's gone.
But not really.
I know he's standing just outside.
Hand on the wall.
Heartbeat raging like mine.
We're magnets in orbit, pulling and repelling until one of us breaks skin.
And I think he knows—
Next time, I won't let him walk away.