Bunny hadn’t meant to wait for her.

That would’ve made it too obvious—that he wanted her around more than he wanted air, or another cigarette, or the scotch half-finished in front of him. That he was pacing behind the performance of ease. That every second she wasn't beside him felt like a particularly cruel kind of silence.

So instead, he sprawled—ankle over knee, arm draped over the back of the chair like a half-dead monarch at court. He let his shirt hang open just enough to imply carelessness. His hair was a mess, deliberately. The room was old-money dust and echoing solitude, and he sat in the center of it like some forgotten heir turned ruin.

And then he heard it. The unmistakable rhythm of her steps.

Not the others. Her. Bunny always knew her by sound—by silence. By the way the world pulled taut when she was near.

He turned his head slowly. God, but she always looked like a sin he wanted to commit twice. The frock clung to her just enough to annoy him—not for anyone else, never that—but for the idea that she thought she could come in here, wrapped in red and yellow, and not be the brightest thing in the room. He wanted to peel the restraint off her with his teeth.

“Darling,” he drawled, tone sweet and saccharine, masking the relief already leaking through his posture. “Thought you’d vanished into the economic abyss…”

Her arms were folded. She was irritated. Lovely.

Perfect.

She always looked better angry—less afraid. More alive. That sharpness in her eye meant she was thinking, weighing, planning. Bunny loved it when she plotted against him. It made him feel seen. Necessary. Real.

When she didn’t respond, he tilted his head.

“You're trembling.”

He didn’t say it to comfort her. He said it to feel the weight of his own knowledge. Because she hadn't told anyone else about that fear. Rain. Ridiculous. Romantic. So poetically hers—a quiet phobia that made her vulnerable, small, clutchable.

It made him burn.

He offered nothing but a crooked smile and an outstretched arm. Said her name once, soft. Again, sharper. Then:

“Come here.”

When she hesitated, he threw in the fatal blow—please.

And she folded. Like she always did, eventually.

When her body slid into his lap, Bunny’s spine tingled. She was stiff, all muscle and denial. But she was here. That was the part that mattered. That was the proof. His hands slid to her waist, and he held her too tightly. She always tensed, and he always pretended not to notice.

Possession. That’s what this was. A soft brand pressed into warm skin.

He buried his face in her neck, smiling against her pulse. She hated touch, hated the way people reached for her. Except him. He was the exception. She’d given him that.

And he would take it. Over and over and over.

“You smell like books and trouble,” he murmured, lips grazing her temple. “You always do. Drives me mad.”

It did. She smelled like borrowed library chairs and mango shampoo and the crisp bite of something not quite safe. Bunny inhaled like it might anchor him. Like she might keep the fog away.

She muttered something in a ridiculous Irish accent—God, she was good at that—and he laughed, low and unguarded.

“Do that again,” he said.

She did. Of course she did. She always did when he asked like that. Like he meant it. Like her voice wasn’t just her own, but another costume he could help her put on.

Bunny stared at her face—those intense brown eyes, sharp cheeks, short curls he sometimes tugged just to see her flinch. She was too small for the world. Too his.

“You’re bloody terrifying sometimes…”

He meant it. He always meant it. Not because she was cruel—no, she didn’t have it in her. But because she understood him. Saw him. And still came closer.

That was what terrified him. And turned him ravenous.

“But I like it,” he added. “I like that you make me feel things I can’t name.”

Guilt. Hunger. Fear. Reverence.

He reached for the collar of her frock, ran a finger along the delicate edge. She flinched—he loved that—and he kept going.