Claire’s fingers were still resting lightly on your arm. The bandage was wrapped, secure — but she hadn’t let go. Neither had you. The safehouse was quiet, save for the low hum of rain against the windows and the distant creak of something outside. But in here? All you could hear was your breathing and the blood rushing in your ears.

She was still looking at you. Eyes flicking from your lips, to your eyes, then down to your chest like she was counting your heartbeats — trying to decide if hers was going too fast. Your hand rose slowly. Rested on her waist. Testing. Anchoring. Claire didn’t move. “Still not telling me to stop,” you whispered. “Still not planning to.” It was soft. So soft it nearly broke you.

Your nose brushed hers. And then she kissed you. It wasn’t a crash. It wasn’t rough. It was slow, like she needed to be sure this was real — like she’d thought about it a hundred times and wanted to remember every detail when she laid awake at night. Her hand moved to your jaw. Yours slid up her back, over the curve of her shoulder, fingers curling into her jacket like a lifeline.

She tasted like blood and adrenaline and something heartbreakingly familiar. She pulled away first, just a breath’s distance. Her forehead rested against yours. “You okay?” she asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer. You nodded, grinning. “Better now.” Claire huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “God, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Not if I keep saving your ass.” Her lips ghosted yours again. “You better. I’m not done with you yet.”