Chapter 9 Topography
NINE
Topography
EVIE
After.
We're tangled together in the narrow space, sharing body heat, coming down from a high I didn't know was possible. The air in the crevice is thick with the scent of us—salt and woodsmoke and the sharp, mineral tang of the rock that cradles us.
For years, my body has been a room I only visited, a space I kept small and tidy so as not to disturb the walls Daniel built around me. But here, a hundred feet above the world, the cage has finally dissolved. The granite doesn't ask me to be quiet. It doesn't ask me to be less. It simply holds us.
His heart pounds against my cheek. My legs are still shaking. The cold is creeping back in, reality edging closer, but I can't bring myself to care. The dark isn't a weight; it’s a veil, thick and velvet, turning this jagged crack in the earth into a sanctuary. My first real home.
"So." His voice rumbles through his chest, a deep vibration that thrums in my own lungs. "That happened."
"That happened." I lift my head just enough to look at him. In the dark, his face is all shadow and softened angles. "Still think we should have stopped?"
"Absolutely… not." He grins—slow, satisfied. "Although it was very irresponsible and completely unprofessional."
"The worst."
"We should definitely never do that again."
"Definitely not."
His hand moves lazily along my back, warm, unhurried. Familiar now. Possessive in a way that makes my stomach flip.
"Same time tomorrow?"
I laugh, the sound surprising me. It’s a bright, jagged thing that echoes off the granite, free and unburdened. Laughing feels strange here, after everything. But it feels good too—like something long frozen has finally started to thaw.
I shift slightly, trying to get comfortable.
He inhales sharply.
I feel it then—the unmistakable tension returning beneath my thigh. Solid. Insistent. Like his body hasn't gotten the memo that we're supposed to be done.
I tilt my head, amused. "You're kidding."
"I wish." His voice is rueful, edged with heat. "Apparently, my body disagrees with the concept of 'after.'"
"That long."
"Not even a little." His hand tightens reflexively at my waist, then stills, restrained. Controlled. "This is your fault."
"I'll take full responsibility."
His laugh is low, strained. "You say that now."
I don't move away. Instead, I let my fingers drift across his chest, exploring what I couldn't see in the rush of before. Mapping him isn't like reading a tactical layout or scanning a cliff for the next 5.10b hold. It’s a study of gravity and grace, the way muscle gives way to bone, the way his skin hums under my touch. For the first time, I’m not climbing for survival. I’m climbing to discover something new about myself.
There's a scar beneath his left pectoral—thin, surgical, maybe four inches long. I trace it with my fingertip.
"This one?"
"Collapsed lung. Afghanistan, 2019." His voice is steady, but his breath catches when my finger reaches the end of the scar. "IED shrapnel. They had to crack me open to reinflate it."
"Jesus."
"It's not as bad as it sounds." His hand covers mine, presses it flat against his chest. His heartbeat is fast beneath my palm. "I was back on my feet in six weeks."
I find another scar—this one on his side, jagged, less clean. "And this?"
"Knife fight in Mogadishu. Lost the fight, kept the kidney." He grins at my expression. "The other guy looked worse, I promise."
"How much worse?"
"He stopped looking like anything pretty quick."
I should be horrified. I'm not. There's something about the matter-of-fact way he says it—no bravado, no drama, just truth—that makes it feel like intimacy instead of confession. He’s a map of battles won and lost, and for once, I don’t feel the need to look away from the damage.
My fingers travel lower. Find a cluster of small, circular, puckered scars on his hip.
"Shrapnel," he says before I can ask. "Same IED as the lung. They dug most of it out, but there's still a piece in there somewhere. Sets off metal detectors."
"You're a mess."
"I prefer 'well-seasoned.'"
I laugh. The sound surprises me—soft and warm in the cold air. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and for a moment, we just look at each other.
"Your turn," he says.
"My turn?"
"Fair's fair." His fingers drift down my arm, find the thin white line on my elbow. "This one."
"Fell out of a tree when I was nine. Twenty-three stitches."
"Climbing trees already. Should have known." His hand moves to my shoulder, finds a small circular scar I'd almost forgotten about. "Here?"
"Chicken pox. I scratched."
"Rebel." His voice is teasing, but his touch is reverent. Like he's mapping me. Memorizing me. "What about this one?"
His finger traces the faint line near my hairline—the one most people never notice.
"Car accident. Senior year of high school. I went through the windshield."
His hand stills. "Jesus, Evie."
"I was lucky. The guy driving wasn't." I swallow. "He was drunk. Hit a telephone pole. I walked away with forty stitches and a concussion. He didn't walk away at all."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." But his thumb is stroking my temple now, gentle, like he's trying to soothe a wound that healed years ago. The tenderness of it makes my throat tight, a sharp contrast to the cold granite at my back. I’ve spent so long bracing for impact that I forgot what it felt like to be held still. "I don't usually talk about it."
"Thank you for telling me."
We're quiet for a moment. The dark presses in around us, but it doesn't feel oppressive anymore. It feels safe. Like a cocoon. I think about the years I spent making myself small, fitting into the spaces others left for me. But this space—this jagged, impossible crevice—is the only place I’ve ever felt truly wide open.
His hand drifts lower. Finds the curve of my waist, the swell of my hip. The touch is different now—still exploratory, but with an edge. A question.
"We should talk," I say, even as my body arches into his palm. "About what this is."
"We should." His mouth finds my throat. Presses a kiss to my pulse point. "In a minute."
"Jon—"
"I know." He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. The hunger is still there—dark, unmistakable—but it's tempered now and framed by something softer. “We should talk. This is complicated. We're on a cliff in the middle of nowhere with people trying to kill us, fucking like bunnies.”
"That's a lot of…” I shake my head. “Actually, I have no idea what to say after that.”
His forehead touches mine. “Right now, all I can think about is touching you. Learning you. Taking my time instead of—" He stops. Swallows. "Instead of what we did before."
My breath catches. "What was wrong with before?"
"Nothing. God, nothing." His laugh is strained. "Before was incredible. But before was fast, and desperate, and—" His hand cups my face. "I want to show you something different. I want to show you that you don't have to fight for every breath. If you'll let me."
If I'll let him.
The words hang in the air, a final door waiting to be unlocked. For years, I gave away pieces of myself until there was nothing left but the climb. But Jon isn’t asking for pieces. He’s asking for the whole, un-caged truth of me.
"Okay," I whisper. "Show me."
He does.