Murphy was pacing. Limping, really—favoring one leg, jaw tight with the effort of pretending he wasn’t hurting. The fire between you crackled, casting flickering light across his face, but it did nothing to soften the storm in his eyes.

“You could’ve died today.” His voice was sharp, raw, cutting through the quiet.

He wasn’t looking at you. His hands curled into fists at his sides, shoulders tense like he was still in the middle of the fight, like the battle wasn’t over even though you’d made it out alive.

Finally, he stopped. Exhaled. Dragged a hand through his hair.

Then, suddenly, he was right in front of you. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that his breathing was uneven, that his fingers twitched at his sides like he was trying to hold something back.

Then he didn’t.

Murphy’s hands came up, rough and sure, cupping your face as he crashed his lips onto yours. It wasn’t soft, wasn’t careful—because nothing about Murphy ever was. It was desperate, like he had been holding it in for too long, like something inside him finally snapped.

And just as fast as it happened, he pulled back, eyes searching yours, breath ragged.

A beat of silence. His grip on you didn’t loosen.

Then, his voice dropped lower, almost like he hated saying it out loud.

“It was always you.”

Like he hadn’t just kissed you. Like he had been saying it in every look, every argument, every time he stayed when he should’ve walked away.

His hands lingered, his thumb tracing a slow line along your jaw before he swallowed hard and muttered, “Say something, or I’m gonna start thinking that was a mistake.”

But even as he said it, his grip on you never wavered.