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"Only ninety? I must be slipping," he teased, closing the distance between us with a few purposeful strides.
"Give it time. You'll hit a hundred before sunrise," My breath hitched as I looked up into his eyes, so close now that I could count the flecks of gold around his pupils.
"Sounds like a plan," he whispered, his breath warm against my skin.
And then, against all reason, all self-preservation, I wanted nothing more than to close that infinitesimal gap, to taste the rain on his lips and forget the world that wanted us dead or alive—preferably the former.
But I didn't. Because fantasies are for people who don't live our life, who don't have targets painted on their backs. Instead, I stepped back, putting space between us once more.
"Get some sleep, Quinn," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me.
"Goodnight, Averill," That simple farewell felt too intimate, too loaded with unspoken promises.
I watched him settle into a chair by the window, forever the vigilant guardian, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, I'd find safety in dreams where bullets were just fireflies, and the only thing that chased me was the morning sun.
Chapter
Six
The scent of sizzling bacon cut through the stale air of the motel room, a sensory contradiction if there ever was one. It was like a whiff of hope in a place where dreams came to die. Freshly brewed coffee followed, a rich, dark aroma that promised a temporary relief from my own mental fog. I never pegged Kylo for a breakfast guy—hell, I barely pegged him for human some days—but there he was, doing his best impression of domestic bliss in this shithole.
"Ugh," I groaned, stretching limbs that felt like they'd been molded to the shape of the lumpy mattress overnight. The bed had all the comfort of a slab of concrete, with springs that poked and prodded like an over excited acupuncturist. I rolled my shoulders and tried to shake off the stiffness. I considered the irony there I was, Averill Winslow, hunter of truths and collector of scars, undone by a damn budget motel bed.
"Morning, sunshine," I called out sarcastically, my voice raspy from sleep—or from screaming into the void in my nightmares; it was always a coin toss. "Did you slaughter a pig out here or something?"
"Good morning to you too," Kylo shot back, unamused or maybe just too focused on not burning our only source of food. "And no, I didn't slaughter anything. Yet."
"Promises, promises," I mumbled under my breath as I shuffled toward the kitchenette, toes curling against the cold floor. My eyes were still half-glued shut, but I could make out the outline of Kylo, standing there like a goddamn Abercrombie model turned housewife. Lucky for him, I wasn't in the mood to play house—or was I?
"Keep that up, and I might start thinking you care," I teased and leaned against the doorframe. It wasn't entirely untrue. The man had seen me at my worst, but there he was, cooking breakfast like we weren't knee-deep in the kind of shit that would make lesser men run for the hills.
"Someone's gotta keep you alive," he flipped the bacon with a finesse I wouldn't have expected from his large, calloused hands. Hands that...
Focus, Averill. I shook myself internally and pushed away thoughts that had no business mingling with the smell of bacon. There was a time traveler on the loose, and my mother's death still hung over me like a storm cloud ready to burst. That was my reality, not whatever this cozy little scene pretended to be.
"Alive and kicking," I affirmed and snagged a strip of bacon from the plate with a quick, practiced move. "Literally, if necessary."
"Wouldn't expect anything less," Kylo said with a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He knew me well enough by now to know that I'd fight tooth and nail for answers—and for a piece of perfectly cooked bacon.
A giggle managed to slip from my lips as I took a bite and let the salty, crispy perfection momentarily distract me from the looming specters of betrayal and revenge. But only for a moment. After all, in this city the rain outside didn't wash away sins—it just made them stickier.
"Could you put on a shirt? You're violating about fifteen health codes," I grumbled, even though my gaze lingered on the expanse of his back, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades down to the dimples above his waistband.
"Health inspector now, are we?" He glanced over his shoulder and a smirk played on his lips. The steam from the frying pan curled up around him, wrapping him in a sultry embrace that my thoughts couldn’t help but entertain. It was like the fucking skillet was conspiring with him, blurring the boundaries between desire and the need for distance.
"Someone's gotta uphold the law." My attempt at indifference faltered as he turned, revealing the full extent of his bare chest—every ridge and valley sculpted as if chiseled by some sadistic artist keen on testing my self-control.
"Trust me, you're the last person I’d peg for a stickler for rules," he flipped the bacon with a deft twist of his wrist.
"Only when it suits me." I leaned against the counter edge, arms crossed, pretending to be calm. But every sputter of grease, every waft of coffee beans seemed to weave this domestic spell and lulled me into a dangerous sense of security.
"Breakfast is almost ready," Kylo said, plates clinking as he set one on the laminate countertop. "I hope you like your eggs with a side of mystery."
"Only if the mystery involves figuring out how you manage to cook without burning the place down." I watched him move, the natural light struggling through the grimy window, catching the contours of his body and casting him in a glow that felt too pure for a world as stained as ours.
He laughed, and the sound tugged at something deep inside me, a knot I kept tightly wound. "You know me—I like to live dangerously. Come on, sit. Eat." He gestured to the table with a nod of his head.
I hesitated, a part of me wanting to maintain the walls I had taken twenty years to build so meticulously around myself.
