It happens in a blur, right after the fight ends and your adrenaline is still spiking like it wants one more hit. You’re bleeding, bruised, breathless. He’s got a hand wrapped tight around your arm, practically dragging you down an alley behind the safehouse. “You could’ve died,” he spits, jaw clenched, eyes wild. “The fuck were you thinkin’, takin’ a blast for me?” You try to answer, but it’s stuck in your throat: lodged somewhere between the fear, the fury, and the terrifying relief that he’s okay. That you’re both still standing. So instead, you lean in and kiss him. Your mouth just barely brushes his, and then it’s over. You pull back like you touched fire.

His grip tightens on your arm. His eyes are locked on yours, unreadable. You can hear both your heartbeats in the silence. You open your mouth to say something, anything: an apology, a bad joke, anything to make it easier, but he shuts it down fast. “Don’t,” he says, low and sharp. That’s all.

You step back like you’ve been slapped, swallowing hard. “Right,” you mutter. “Forget it.” But before you can even move another inch, his hand is on your face. Firm, steady. Fingers threading through your hair. He stares at you like he’s at war with himself, and then he makes the decision for both of you. He kisses you. It’s nothing like the first. There’s no panic in this one, no hesitation. Just heat and hunger and something that feels a hell of a lot like need. His mouth crashes into yours, and your whole body responds like it’s been waiting for this.

You make a sound: half gasp, half moan, and he pulls you in harder. His other hand finds your waist, gripping tight. You feel the scrape of his stubble, the tension in his shoulders, the way he kisses like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops. And still, he doesn’t stop. When he finally breaks away, his forehead rests against yours. You’re both breathless. “That first kiss,” he says, voice rough, still catching air. “That was a mistake.” Your heart sinks, but before the ache fully lands, he lifts your chin with a single finger and meets your eyes. “This one?” he murmurs. “Not a fuckin’ chance.” Then he kisses you again. Slower this time.