With our scents.
She's making this permanent in the small ways available to her, even while we all pretend this might still be temporary.
"Goodnight, Jett."
She's already walking away—barefoot, blood-stained, wearing my shirt and carrying evidence of her violence like trophies.
"Thanks for the clothes. And for not dying before I could save you."
She pauses at the threshold of the house.
Looks back over her shoulder.
And her smile—god, hersmile—is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Warm.
Genuine.
The expression of someone who's starting to believe she might actually be happy.
Then she's gone.
Disappeared into the house, leaving me alone in the garden surrounded by corpses and the lingering echo of her scent.
I stand there.
Processing.
My heart is racing.
Actuallyracing—a physiological response I'm not accustomed to, a betrayal of the carefully controlled calm I've spent years cultivating.
She saved me.
She stripped naked because I accidentally asked her to.
She kissed me—soft and sweet and nothing like the violence we're both capable of.
She's building a nest with our clothes.
The implications crash over me in waves.
She's not just playing along anymore.
She's not just following strategy.
She wants this. Wants us. Is actively choosing to make this feel permanent even though none of us have promised anything beyond the immediate threat.
My hand rises to my lips.
I can still feel the ghost of her kiss there.
Warm.
Real.
Something I didn't know I was capable of wanting until I had it.
