Occupied France, 1944. The blackout made the whole base feel haunted. The sky was black silk, the only light coming from the sliver of moon that slipped through the cracks in the wooden supply shed. You weren’t supposed to be there. Neither was Mason. But rules stopped mattering a long time ago, especially when it came to him.

He pressed you up against the back wall, the scent of earth and sweat clinging to your uniforms, his breath warm against your neck. Somewhere in the distance, boots crunched gravel—but neither of you moved. You couldn’t. His hand was at your side, fingers ghosting under the hem of your undershirt, just enough to make your heart thump louder than the sirens ever had. You looked at him, both daring and afraid.

“One of these days,” Mason whispered low, lips just brushing yours, “I’m not gonna stop myself. And I don’t think you want me to.”