Page 63

Ziva

I wake to the steady, comforting beat of Myall’s heart beneath my ear, the heat from his body a gentle weight against mine. The cool sheets cling to my skin, a reminder of the night’s stillness.

Dawn’s light is soft, hesitant, and it filters through the thin curtains in beams, casting pale stripes across Myall’s face. His hair is tousled, wild from sleep, and I catch myself reaching toward him before pulling my hand back, the urge to brush it from his forehead almost overwhelming.

Myall’s eyes flutter, his dark lashes grazing his cheeks. For a moment, I think he’s still in the haze of sleep, but then his gaze sharpens, locking with mine, and a slow smile curves at the corners of his lips.

His voice is husky with sleep, low and warm, as he murmurs, “morning, beautiful.” The sound of it stirs something deep within me, like his words are a physical touch.

“Morning,” I whisper, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertips, feeling the roughness of his stubble against my skin.

Waking up like this feels almost unreal. After years of numbness, each touch, each word from him stirs something deep—like my heart’s learning how to beat again. I catch myself savoring these moments, afraid they might slip away if I don’t hold on tight enough.

Myall’s warmth presses into me, but beneath it, I can still feel the echo of my NeuroMod. The silence of The Authority echoes in my mind—distant but relentless, like a nightmare I can’t quite shake off, no matter how hard I try.

“We should get up,” I say reluctantly, even as I make no move to leave the comfort of his embrace.

Myall nods but doesn’t release me, instead he nuzzles closer. “Five more minutes,” he bargains.

As Myall presses a kiss to my forehead, his lips are tender, sending a rush of warmth through my chest. I can smell the faint hint of lemon from his soap, mixing with the earthy scent of his skin as I nestle closer to him.

I close my eyes, savoring this moment before the day’s responsibilities close in. The rebellion we’ve started, the changes we’re implementing—it’s been a lot of work over the last two weeks.

Reluctantly, I pull myself from Myall’s arms and slip out of bed, my bare feet cool against the worn floor as I pad over to the small kitchen.

My fingers are stiff from the chill, but I don’t mind. The quiet of the room wraps around me as I start the small, familiar ritual of preparing our food, my mind wandering.

The air smells faintly of grease and burnt toast as I scrape together the simplest breakfast I can manage—just a few stale slices of bread and a dollop of cold, unappetizing paste that passes for butter.

We’ve made significant progress in restructuring the city’s leadership, but there’s still so much to be done.

“What’s on your mind?” Myall asks, coming up behind me and resting his hands on my shoulders.

I lean back into him, drawing strength from his steady presence, feeling his warmth seep into me. “Just thinking about everything we need to do. The centralized hub we’re setting up, coordinating with the other rebel groups—”

“We’re making a difference, Ziva,” he reminds me, his voice calm and reassuring. “One day at a time.”

Nodding, I bite my lower lip as I turn to face him. “I know. It’s just… the responsibility of it all. We’re not just changing a system, we’re reshaping an entire way of life.”

What if we start something that consumes us instead of freeing us?

The thought gnaws at me, twisting my stomach into knots. Can we truly wield this power without becoming the very oppressors we seek to overthrow?

Myall’s eyes soften with understanding. “And that’s exactly why we’re the right people for this. Your passion, your determination—it’s what’s inspiring others to join our cause.”

I breathe deeply, centering myself. “You’re right. We’ve already established the framework for the independent groups to work together. Now we just need to fine-tune the coordination and information sharing through our central hub.”

“Which we’ll run together,” Myall adds, a hint of pride in his voice.

The enormity of what we’re undertaking hits me anew. “It’s daunting, isn’t it? But also… kind of exciting. To think of all the people we could help, all the lives we could change.”

Myall pulls me into his arms, his muscles tightening around me. “That’s why we’re doing this.”

Pulling back from Myall’s embrace, my heart races with a mix of exhilaration and nervousness. It’s still strange, feeling so much without the dampening effects of the NeuroMods. I let out a small laugh, reveling in the sheer joy of it.

“What’s so funny?” Myall asks, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.

“Everything,” I reply, gesturing wildly. “I’m terrified and thrilled and overwhelmed all at once. It’s… even after all these weeks it still feels weird.”

Myall grins, running a hand through his hair. “I know exactly what you mean. Sometimes I catch myself waiting for the numbness to set in, but it never does.”

We move around each other in our morning routine, but there’s a new energy to our movements. I catch Myall’s eye as I’m pulling on my sweater as he watches me dress, and a surge of affection washes over me.

“You know,” I say, my voice thick with emotion, “I think my favorite part about this new world we’re creating is that we no longer have to follow the AI system’s strict timekeeping.”

Myall pauses, his shirt half-buttoned. “Mine too,” he laughs softly, crossing the bedroom towards me.

Reaching up, I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips. “We should probably get going,” I murmur, but I make no move to step away.

Myall’s arms encircle my waist, pulling me closer. “Probably,” he agrees, but then his lips are on mine, soft and insistent.

I melt into the kiss, my hands sliding into his hair. The world falls away, and all that exists is this moment, this feeling. We break apart, breathless, the cool air between us tinged with the lingering warmth of our shared breath, my heart racing as if I’ve just sprinted a mile.

“We’re going to be late,” I say, but there’s no real concern in my voice.

Myall shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Let’s be late then. We’re building a revolution, I think we’ve earned the right to enjoy a moment of freedom.”

Laughing, I pull him closer, feeling the weight of everything slip away in the rush of his kiss. “You’re a bad influence, Myall Hansen.”

“And you love it, Ziva Emerson,” he retorts, his voice warm with affection.

As his lips meet mine, the world narrows to the intoxicating feel of his warmth against my skin, the urgency of his hands pulling me closer, as if we might dissolve into each other entirely.

Suddenly I’m lost, drowning in sensation.

The taste of him—lemon soap and toothpaste and something uniquely Myall.

His touch sears my skin as his hands cup my face.

Pressing against him, I savor the warmth of his body. Our kiss deepens, hungry and desperate. My hands roam over the planes of his chest, his muscles taut under my fingers.

“We shouldn’t,” I gasp, even as I tug his shirt free, letting it fall to the ground. “We’ll be late.”

“Don’t care,” Myall growls, nipping at my neck. “They can wait.”

A soft moan escapes me as he pushes me against the wall. His knee slides between my bare legs and I grind against him shamelessly as he kisses me. I lose myself in the pleasure, in the freedom of expressing my desire with Myall without fear or shame. Just Myall and me and the passion we share.

His fingers slip under my sweater, tracing patterns on my skin as he gently lifts the fabric over my head. His fingers trail up my stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Myall’s eyes are dark with need as he looks at me. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers reverently as his calloused fingers continue their gentle trail.

I arch into his touch, desperate for more. “Please,” I whimper.

Cradling Myall’s face, I’m overwhelmed by the intensity of emotion reflected in his eyes. He grabs me by the waist and lifts me into his arms. His carries me towards the bed, his urgency mirroring my own. I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers gripping his hair.

We fall onto the bed together, a frenzy of limbs and kisses. He trails kisses down my neck, knowing exactly how to touch me, how to make me feel alive and desired.

I tug at his belt, impatient to feel him, skin against skin. Myall chuckles against my lips, the sound vibrating through me. “Eager, aren’t we?” he teases.

Groaning in response, I tug at his pants until they fall away. Myall moves on top of me, his weight pinning me to the bed as he trails kisses down my body. Each kiss sends shivers through me and I arch into him, wanting more.

“I need you inside of me,” I whisper, a moan escaping my lips as he kisses the junction where my legs and pelvis meet.

Myall doesn’t hesitate as he positions himself at my entrance, entering me with deliberate, slow thrusts. His mouth meets mine in a hungry, all consuming kiss as he continues to push deeper and deeper, bottoming out entirely.

He withdraws then thrusts back in, repeating the motion slowly. My head falls back against the pillow, a moan escaping my lips as I feel the pleasure already building inside of me as I meet him thrust for thrust.

“I love you,” I breathe, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Myall’s grip on me tightens, his pace increasing. “I love you too,” he groans, burying his face in the crook of my neck, the raw vulnerability in his voice making my heart ache.

As the intensity builds with each thrust, I feel myself nearing the edge. “Myall,” I gasp, “I’m—”

“Me too,” he pants.

We lose ourselves in each other, cresting the wave of pleasure simultaneously, crying out in shared ecstasy.

I can’t help but think this is what we’re fighting for—the freedom to feel, to love, to be fully human, in all our messy, beautiful complexity. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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