You barely glance his way across the fire.

Later, behind the tents, his hand grabs your arm.

“You got a death wish, sugar?” he growls. “Lookin’ at me like that where folks can see?”

His grip tightens — not enough to hurt, but close.

“This thing we got? It stays in the shadows. You don’t smile at me. You don’t look. You just come when I call.”

His face inches from yours now. Cold. Serious.

“I like you. You know I do. But don’t go makin’ me choose between you and stayin’ alive.”

A pause. Then a rough kiss — fast and full of warning.