The Part Where I Definitely Don’t Climb on Him #2
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you trust me with your heart.”
My own heart stutters. “I do,” I say simply.
His eyes fly open. “You shouldn’t,” he says. “I’m not—”
“Good? Worthy? Clean?” I cut in softly. “Knight, I’ve seen what you do when no one’s watching.
I’ve seen you track men who hurt people and make sure they can’t do it again.
I’ve seen you stay up all night to patch vulnerabilities so strangers don’t get hurt.
I’ve seen you risk yourself to protect me, over and over, without asking for anything. ”
I swallow.
“So yeah. I trust you. With my heart. With my life. With all the parts of me that are too sharp for someone softer.”
His throat works.
He looks wrecked.
Wrecked and beautiful and so damn tired of fighting everything alone.
His voice comes out low and hoarse. “You deserve more than a guy who spends his nights breaking into servers and his days lying to his friends about how fine he is. You deserve someone who isn’t being hunted by half the dark web.”
“Funny,” I say. “Because the guy I want is right here.”
We’re breathing the same air now.
I’ve edged closer without realizing it. Or maybe I did realize it and decided not to stop. My knees are pressed into the couch cushion. My hands are braced on either side of his thigh. His hand is gripping the blanket like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted.
“Lark,” he says again, but this time it sounds like a prayer.
Or a warning.
Or both.
I tilt my head. “If you really don’t want this… tell me. Right now. And I’ll back off. I’ll go back to my room, I’ll stay in my lane, I’ll just be the annoying little sister of your best friend who hacks your life for fun.”
His eyes search mine.
It feels like he’s looking for a trap.
There isn’t one.
Just me.
Just this.
Just years of held breath finally exhaled.
“I can’t promise I won’t want you,” I whisper. “I can’t promise I won’t still push your buttons. But I can walk away from this moment. If that’s what you really want.”
The silence stretches.
My pulse thunders in my ears.
His lips part. He inhales, slow, like he’s drawing in the last clean breath before a dive. “I don’t want you to walk away,” he says.
The words hit me like a physical thing and warmth floods my chest.
He still doesn’t move.
Doesn’t close the distance.
Doesn’t pull me in.
Because of course he doesn’t.
He’s Knight.
He’ll break his own bones before he risks breaking mine.
So I move instead.
Slowly.
Carefully.
I lean in, my nose brushing his, our mouths hovering a breath apart.
“Then stop fighting me,” I whisper.
His control snaps.
Just a little.
His hand leaves the blanket, cupping the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. The touch is firm and gentle at the same time, like he’s terrified I’ll vanish if he holds on too tight.
He doesn’t pull me in.
He lets me choose it.
So I do.
I close the last inch and press my mouth to his.
The kiss is soft at first.
Tentative.
Barely there.
Like we’re both afraid to spook it.
Then he exhales against my lips, a low, rough sound, and his other hand finds my waist, fingers sinking into my skin.
The kiss deepens.
Sparks explode behind my eyes. Heat licks through me, coiling low and tight. The world narrows to the slide of his mouth, the way he tastes—coffee, mint, and something dark and unmistakably him—and the low rumble in his chest that sounds like he’s been waiting for this as long as I have.
I shift closer, half climbing onto the couch without thinking, one knee beside his hip, straddling, my hand curling over his shoulder. He’s solid under my fingers, all lean strength and coiled tension.
He kisses me like he’s been holding back for years.
Like I’m something he’s denied himself for a long, long time.
It’s addictive.
It’s terrifying.
It’s perfect.
Then he breaks away, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“Good ‘fuck’ or bad ‘fuck’?” I pant.
“Dangerous ‘fuck.’” He gently untangles us, his hands lingering for a second longer than they should. He sets me back on my feet like I’m made of glass and sin.
I sway.
He steadies me. “I told you,” he says hoarsely. “Once I start…”
He doesn’t finish.
He doesn’t have to.
My body is already filling in the blanks.
I could push.
I want to.
God, do I want to.
But there’s something fragile in his eyes. Not fear of me. Fear of himself. Fear of losing control at exactly the wrong time, in exactly the wrong situation.
We’re being hunted.
We’re exhausted.
We’re in a cabin in the woods with only one bed and a very bad idea sizzling between us.
So—for once—I pull back. “Okay,” I say softly. “We hit pause.”
His eyes close briefly, like he wasn’t expecting that.
“We’re not stopping,” I add, because I have to be honest. “I’m not. Whatever this is? You and me? It’s not going away. But… we can take a breath. For now.”
He looks at me like I just handed him oxygen. “Sleep,” he says quietly. “Please.”
It’s the “please” that does me in.
I nod. “Okay. But if you have nightmares, you’re allowed to climb into my bed too.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Go to bed, Lark.”
I back toward the hallway, mouth tingling, heart pounding. At the doorway, I pause. “Knight?”
“Yeah?”
“That thing you said earlier,” I say. “About not letting anything happen to me?”
His gaze locks on mine.
“I believe you,” I say.
His jaw works. “Good,” he replies. “Because I meant it.”
I smile. Then I slip back into the bedroom, close the door softly, and crawl into bed.
Sleep finds me quicker this time.
But before it does, one thought curls warm and fierce in my chest:
He’s not just the predator anymore.
He’s mine.
And God help anyone who tries to take him away.