Chapter 31 #2
I drop behind the nearest barrier and laugh until I have to sit down. It rolls through me in waves, impossible to stop once it starts. My gun lies forgotten on the floor beside me, my stomach aches, and I can't remember the last time I laughed hard enough to feel it.
Adrian makes it to the barrier beside me and drops down against it. He sits there and watches me, something intent and unmistakably pleased in his expression.
He looks at me the way someone looks at something they've been hoping to see for a very long time.
I wipe at my eyes with the back of my wrist and try to pull myself together.
Then we play another round.
And another.
He lets me win one of them.
I know because of the way he takes the deciding hit, a fraction of a second too late on the dodge. He could have cleared it.
But he doesn't make it obvious.
He doesn't throw the match dramatically or collapse into another performance. He takes the tag, nods once, and moves on.
I appreciate that more than I can say.
He knows I'd rather lose a fair game than win a condescending one.
Somewhere during the third round, midway through a chase across the center section of the course, I corner him near the far wall. He ducks behind a tall barrier.
I come around the edge grinning, breathing hard, and ready.
Then his scent hits me.
Sweat and the deeper cedar-and-amber beneath it all, deepened by exertion. It's not just familiar anymore. It's overwhelming. Yesterday his scent meant safety. Today it means something else entirely.
My omega surges.
Between one breath and the next, my whole nervous system pivots from exhilarated to urgent. The playful grin disappears into something more complicated without my permission, and my hands are already on the front of his vest before I understand what's happening.
I use his vest to pull myself closer, and he goes completely still beneath my hands, the same way he did in the kitchen.
I press my face against the side of his throat and breathe in deeply. An unconscious purr slips from my chest.
“Hey.” His voice is low, different from the tone he had moments ago. “I’ve got you.”
My face is hot, not from the flare but from the humiliation of it happening now, here, in the middle of a paintball game while I'm wearing a vest covered in orange paint splatters.
His hands settle at my waist, grounding me. “Breathe,” he says. “Take a breath.”
I do. His cedar scent floods in, and my omega settles by degrees. The urgency loses its sharp edge and eases back into something manageable.
“I'm sorry,” I say into his shoulder.
“Don't.” His voice is soft, the same tone he used in the kitchen. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I was doing so well.”
“You were.” His thumb makes a slow pass across my back beneath the edge of the vest. “You still are. This isn't a setback.”
My hands loosen on his vest, but I don't move away. His scent is easing the sharp edge of the flare, and the adrenaline from the game is still running through my system. The combination is not helping.
I'm aware of how close we are in a way that has nothing to do with the game we were just playing.
“It's getting closer,” I say. I mean the heat. He knows I mean the heat.
“Yeah,” he says.
I press one last breath against his throat, then step back.
He doesn't immediately drop his hands from my waist. When I look up, his eyes find mine, and I can see him checking in, assessing where I am mentally. Then something in his expression settles. “Do you want to keep going?” he asks.
I glance around the empty course. My gun is somewhere on the floor behind me where I dropped it.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.” I'm not letting this ruin the game.
He retrieves my gun from where it fell and hands it back before reclaiming his own. Neither of us mentions the flare again as we head back into the course in opposite directions.
We call the game after another twenty minutes. There’s no formal score, just the mutual agreement of two people who are exhausted, sweaty, and have accomplished what they came for.
There’s a low observation platform at the edge of the course, a wooden deck overlooking the full layout of the facility. We end up there with our gear off and water bottles from the supply bag Adrian apparently packed, because of course he did.
I drink half of mine in one go. He’s already gone through most of his.
The course below us is empty and still. I can see every barrier we hid behind, every place I ran, and the corner where the flare hit. From up here it looks smaller than it felt.
“Did you plan this as a distraction?” I ask. I’m looking at the course, not at him.
“No,” he says.
That gets my attention. I glance over at him. His hair is damp at the temples, and there’s a faint smear of blue paint above his left eyebrow from the ricochet that caught him in round two.
He looks less polished than he usually does.
Less like the version of himself that exists in press photos and production meetings.
More like a person.
“I planned it because you've been so afraid,” he says without apology.
“Ever since the morning your presentation became something other people knew about, everyone started circling you and treating you like there was a problem to manage. Including me, sometimes.” He turns his water bottle slowly in his hands.
“And I hated watching you make yourself smaller because of it.” His gaze moves back to the course.
“You are not small. You've never been small. I wanted to give you a day where you remembered that.”
I don't say anything.
“You catch scheduling overlaps in thirty seconds,” he continues.
“You solve problems at seven in the morning that three other people would have missed entirely.
You argue about knives with Bash and win, which I want you to know is genuinely impressive.
And today you shot me in the chest from five feet away without hesitating and then laughed until you couldn't breathe.” The corner of his mouth lifts.
“That's who you are. Not your designation.”
Emotion rushes through my chest so quickly it almost hurts. I take a breath and let it settle.
“Adrian.”
He looks at me.