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My chest tightens. I don’t move. Don’t speak.

I should lie again.

I don’t.

The wrench in my hand lowers an inch. Not because I trust him. Not because I’m letting him in. But because this part—this moment—I can’t fake my way through it.

He says it softly.

“Chiara.”

My throat closes.

It’s not the name. It’s the way he says it. Like it’s a secret I almost got away with.

I meet his eyes. That’s my mistake.

The air between us pulls tight. I hate that I feel it. I hate that I want it.

“I should tell you to leave,” I say, voice too shaky.

“Then do it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t press. Just waits.

I don’t say anything.

He steps in slowly. Reaches for my face. One hand, no pressure. Just his palm against my cheek like he’s waiting for me to push him away.

I don’t.

“You don’t have to run,” he says. “Not from me.”

My fingers claw at the front of his shirt, knuckles whitening as I grip the fabric taut.

I yank him closer, the space between us vanishing in a heartbeat. His mouth crashes into mine before I can second-guess the fire igniting in my chest.

The kiss isn’t frantic, not some reckless collision I can dismiss later. It’s deliberate, searing, unraveling me with every slow, deliberate sweep of his lips.

He kisses me like he’s memorized every curve of my mouth, every shudder I can’t hide. And I let him—God, I let him.

My spine slams against the crate stack, the rough wood biting through my shirt. His body molds to mine, all heat and hard lines, and I don’t shove him away.

My hands roam, restless, greedy—tangling in the damp hair at his nape, skimming the broad expanse of his chest, clutching at his sides where muscle shifts under my touch. I can’t stay still. I don’t want to.

His breath is hot against my jaw, trailing sparks as he murmurs my name like a prayer.

“This isn’t smart,” I gasp, lips brushing his as I speak, my voice trembling with the weight of it.

“I don’t care.” His words are quiet, raw, like a secret he’s carried too long, finally breaking free.

The cot’s there, a shadowed promise behind me. I don’t know when we stumble toward it, but the world tilts, and suddenly we’re falling.

The frame groans under our weight, springs creaking as my thighs lock around his hips, pulling him impossibly closer.

His mouth finds my throat, lips dragging slow and deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make my pulse stutter. My shirt’s bunched high, twisted under my arms, exposing skin that hums under his gaze.

His fingers slip beneath the fabric, not rushed but sure, like he’s mapping every inch of me. They trace the curve of my ribs, teasing the edge of my bra, lingering where my breath catches.