"It'll wait until morning."
"Will it? We don't know what morning brings. What if—"
"Alex." He moved into the light, the angles of his face thrown into sharp relief. He hadn't shaved, and stubble darkened his jaw. "You've been staring at that screen for hours."
"There's too much at stake to get this wrong."
Michael didn't argue. Instead, he rested his hands on my shoulders. "Let me see."
I turned the laptop slightly so he could read over my shoulder. His breath brushed against my neck as he leaned closer, sending an involuntary shiver up my spine despite the gravity of our situation.
Minutes passed as he read in silence. Meanwhile, I set the upload of Evelyn's files in motion. I held my breath, waiting for Michael's assessment of my writing. It mattered what he thought.
"It's powerful, especially the part about targeted individuals having no recourse, no way to even know they've been flagged." His fingers tightened slightly on my shoulders. "But you need to rest. Your mind will be sharper in the morning."
The rational part of me knew he was right. Fatigue had begun to cloud my thinking, making each sentence a struggle.
"I'm almost done."
Michael's right hand traveled from my shoulder to the nape of my neck, his thumb brushing against my hairline in a gesture too intimate for casual comfort.
"The world will still need saving in the morning." His lips brushed my ear.
I let my head fall back, eyes closing briefly as his fingers worked against the knotted muscles of my neck. The tension I'd been carrying since Evelyn's arrival began to dissolve under his touch.
"What if there isn't a morning for us?" I'd finally put the words together for the fear that haunted me most.
Michael said nothing for a long moment, his fingers gently pressing against my skin. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.
"Then we make tonight count."
I swallowed hard. Michael's hand moved from my neck to my jaw, turning my face toward him. Even in the dim light, I saw the intensity in his eyes, a hunger that mirrored my own.
"The laptop," he murmured.
I blinked, momentarily confused, until he reached past me and gently closed the screen. The cabin plunged into deeper darkness, moonlight and dying embers in the wood stove now our only illumination. My eyes adjusted slowly, finding the contours of his face in the shadows.
Miles appeared from the bedroom to take the next shift. He smirked slightly, aware of the sparks flashing between Michael and me.
Michael's hand returned to my neck, thumb brushing against my jaw in a deliberate caress. I leaned back into his touch, my breathing shallow and quick. He whispered a "Goodnight" to Miles and led me to the other bedroom.
I whispered his name. "Michael."
He didn't respond with words. Instead, his fingers traveled from my neck down my chest. When he reached the hem of my shirt, he tugged gently.
My body answered before my mind could form words. I faced him fully. We stood inches apart, close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from him. His eyes never left mine as he slipped his hand beneath my shirt, palm flat against my stomach.
It wasn't about comfort or distraction. This was about knowing we might not get another night. We both needed to claim what little time remained.
I reached for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until our bodies pressed together. His breath hitched. For all his strength and tactical capability, Michael was as frightened as I was—not of danger, but of loss.
"The others." I nodded half-heartedly back toward the cabin's main room.
"Won't hear us if we're careful. We can be quiet." He paused. "I think."
He took my hand then, lacing our fingers together with surprising gentleness. My pulse hammered in my ears.
My academic mind tried to analyze the phenomenon: trauma bonding, adrenaline response, and the human need for connection in the face of mortality. Those clinical terms dissolved beneath Michael's touch and the raw need that coursed through me.
