"You need anything?" James's voice was rough, scraped raw from smoke and exhaustion.
I shook my head, letting my gear bag slide from my shoulder. It hit the floor with a dull thud that made my ribs protest. "Just this." I caught his wrist. "Just you here."
The air conditioning hummed, raising goosebumps on my sweat-dampened skin. We both still reeked of smoke and antiseptic, hospital-grade soap failing to mask the chemical stench of extinguisher foam. James winced as he shrugged off his jacket, the motion pulling at the bandages beneath his ruined shirt.
We stood there momentarily, eyes tracking each other's movements, documenting every scrape and bruise. His gaze lingered on the butterfly strips holding the gash above my eye together. Mine fixed on the angry red marks peeking above his collar where Elliot's knife had drawn blood.
Both still standing. Both still breathing. It was enough.
My sound system had survived whatever sweep Elliot's surveillance had included. The familiar weight of the volume dial grounded me as I turned it, needing something to fill the silence that pressed against my skull. My fingers hesitated over the vinyl collection before finding what fit—not Springsteen's arena anthems or Cash's defiance, but something that spoke about surviving.
Tom Waits's voice crawled through the speakers, gravel, smoke, and raw honesty. "Jersey Girl" unwound between us, piano notes falling like rain. Not polished. Not perfect. Real.
James exhaled, the ghost of a smile touching his mouth. "Trading Cash for Waits? That's quite a shift."
"Cash was for fighting." I leaned against the wall, watching him follow my movements. "This is for after."
He nodded, understanding settling between us as the music wrapped around the room. Waits growled about love and redemption while James's shoulders gradually lost their battleground rigidity.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asked, eyes sharp despite his exhaustion.
My stomach churned slightly at the thought, but hunger edged through the nausea for the first time in days. "Can't remember." I pulled out my phone, muscle memory taking me to my favorite pizza place's number. "But I think I could now."
"Extra pepperoni?"
"Yeah." I hit confirm on the order, watching his face. "And those garlic knots you pretend not to steal."
A smile flashed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
The couch beckoned—the same one where we'd crossed so many lines before everything went sideways. James sank into it first, a quiet groan escaping as he stretched his legs. I followed, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him but not quite touching. Waits's piano wove through the space between us, filling gaps we weren't ready to bridge with words.
James's hand lay on the cushion between us, fingers slightly curled. His knuckles were scraped raw from the fight; his skin split where he'd driven the knife into Elliot's thigh. I reached for him, letting my thumb trace the ridges of damaged skin.
His fingers tangled with mine, grip firm enough to ground us both. The simple contact unleashed something in my chest—not the adrenaline-fueled need from before, but something more profound that ached beneath my ribs.
"You did it," he murmured. "You faced him down."
"We did. You saved my life out there."
He turned his head, eyes connecting with mine in the apartment's shadows. "You'd have done the same."
"Yeah." I shifted closer, the movement pulling at my bruised ribs. "But you did it first."
The pizza arrived, and we tipped the delivery person. Before either of us could retrieve a slice, we had unfinished business to face.
The space between us shrank to nothing. James's breath fanned lightly over my jaw. I gently brushed my lips against his, testing what still held between us after everything.
His response was immediate. He pressed forward, his free hand coming up to curve around the back of my neck. The kiss deepened slowly, deliberately, like we were learning each other again. His fingers tightened in my hair, careful of the bruises but still holding on.
Heat bloomed in my chest, different from the desperate fire of our earlier encounters. This was steadier, like embers banking for the long burn. When we broke the kiss, he burrowed his face into my chest, and our breathing synced up.
His pulse quickened beneath my fingers, where they rested against his throat. The music had shifted to something slower, but I barely registered it over the sound of our breathing. James's hands slid under my shirt, palms pressing flat against my sides.
"Easy," I muttered as his touch grazed my ribs. "Still tender."
He laughed softly against my neck. "You're telling me to be careful? That's new."
I caught his mouth again, swallowing whatever analysis he planned next. His body shifted, pressing me back into the couch cushions. The weight of him, mindful of injuries, settled against my body.
