Page 37

She watched him sleep. Atlas at rest. Not the myth, the man. His face softened in sleep, the weight of the world momentarily shrugged from those broad, beautiful shoulders. She reached out, unable to help herself, and brushed her fingertips over the sharp edge of his jaw. “Atlas,” she whispered.

He stirred, letting out that soft, male noise she was quickly growing addicted to, a sound she never knew she needed until it threaded into her bloodstream like comfort. He turned his face into her palm, seeking more.

“What does that mean?” he mumbled, not opening his eyes, voice rough and intimate.

She leaned down, pressing her lips to the stubble along his cheek. He smelled like heat and soap and something warm that lived beneath his skin. “You’re always trying to hold up the world,” she murmured. “Mr. Fix-it.”

One of his eyes opened, slow and heavy-lidded. Brown. Warm. The kind of color that wasn’t just the color of molasses, it was molasses stirred with sunlight. It thickened her blood, slowed her breath. Made her ache in a place that had stayed untouched for far too long.

She hadn’t once, not in her entire marriage, shared a moment like this with Rob. But with Zorro, it felt inevitable. Natural. Like breathing.

Again. How had she lived without it?

Her chest tightened. Her fingers feathered against his skin.

That whisper of fear, small but sharp, wormed its way in. This wasn’t just heat. This wasn’t just laughter and teasing. This was something real. Real meant risk.Real meant the possibility of loss, and she’d survived that once. She didn’t know if she could again.

“You don’t have to hold up my world,” she said quietly, her voice thinner than she intended. “But it feels good that you want to.”

His other eye opened now, both trained on her with steady, liquid affection. “I can balance a beach ball on my nose, Doc. Holding up the world’s light work compared to carrying you.”

She huffed a startled laugh and jabbed her fingers into his side.

The reaction was immediate and golden.

Mateo Martinez, a man who had taken enemy fire without flinching, delivered a baby in a combat zone, and carried wounded men through monsoon rain, let out a sharp, involuntary giggle. A giggle. It was glorious.

Her eyes went wide. “No. No way.” She jabbed again. “You’re ticklish?”

“Woman—” he growled, trying to roll away as she followed him, relentless now. “You’re poking the beast?—”

She straddled his waist, pinning him in place with her thighs. “Oh, no. This is important field research.” Her fingers dove in again, just beneath his ribs.

He bucked, laughing, helpless. “Stop…stop…this is a war crime!”

“I’m a trauma surgeon. I’m certified.”

“Certified menace,” he wheezed, grabbing her wrists and flipping her under him so fast she barely had time to squeal. Now she was pinned, staring up at him, breathless and giddy.

“Did they teach you that in BUD/S?” she panted, catching her breath as he smirked down at her.

“Absolutely,” he said, shifting slightly so their bodies aligned in the most unholy way possible. “Tickle evasion. Taught between log PT and surf torture. Right after underwater knot-tying and weapon assembly in blackout goggles.”

She grinned up at him, laughing so hard her sides hurt. “Sounds about right.”

He leaned down, his nose brushing hers. “Want to test me on those next?”

But her laugh faltered, just slightly. Beneath the teasing, beneath the burn and warmth and humor, was something else.

She was looking at him. Really looking.

That was when it hit her.

This wasn’t the kind of passion that came from convenience or proximity or adrenaline. It wasn’t even lust, although that still beat through her like a drum, steady and demanding.

This was something older. Truer. The kind of connection that lived in the spaces between words. In the warmth of a palm against a cheek. In the way he had held her through the fire of grief and made her feel like she could breathe again.

This was what Izzy had with Gator. That anchored madness. That spark that never dimmed. That wild, laughing certainty that your person wasn’t just beside you, but with you.

Everly had seen it in Izzy’s eyes in the gift shop. Had heard it in Gator’s voice when he teased her like she was oxygen.

Now…she felt it here. In the press of Zorro’s chest against hers. In the way he grinned, even as he threatened war crimes over tickles. In the way he didn’t leave when things got complicated.

Her heart clutched tight.

Oh, God.

This was what it meant to be in a relationship with someone who participated, not out of duty , not because they were supposed to, but because it made them happy . Choosing you wasn’t sacrifice. It was joy .

She could see him now, Zorro in a flamingo shirt, that devastating grin in place, strutting like a peacock through some hotel lobby just to make her laugh.

She would. She’d laugh so hard she’d double over.

She was laughing now. That was how she knew, and it terrified her.

Passion like this, love like this, meant losing could destroy you. Again. Maybe worse.

She blinked, and her throat tightened.

“Hey,” Zorro said softly, his brow furrowing. “You okay?”

She nodded too fast. “Yeah. Fine.” Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

But his eyes didn’t waver. “You sure?”

She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the back of his neck, like maybe touch would ground her. “I think,” she whispered, “I’m starting to understand what it means to be afraid…not of death, or grief, but of having something this good, and losing it.”

Zorro stilled. Then, slowly, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. His mouth lingered there, a breath warmer than words.

“That’s how you know it’s real, Doc,” he murmured. “You don’t fear losing what doesn’t matter.”

Just like that, she felt the weight of her walls tilt. Not collapse. But shift.

The same way Atlas had once done, letting someone else carry the sky for just a little while.

The first thing he registered was the scent of her.

Warm skin. Salt. The faint trace of her shampoo clinging to the pillow next to him. His eyes were still closed, but his body was already waking up, humming low with contentment, and something deeper, need . Not just physical, though God knew she could undo him with a single look.

No, this was something heavier.

Something life changing.

She was still here.

Everly Quinn. Dr. Sunshine. The woman who once looked at him like he was the embodiment of everything she couldn’t forgive, now tucked into his side like she’d always belonged there.

His chest tightened. She had given herself to him, she had taken him—fuck. His breath came hard, deep inside her body.

He didn’t move. Not yet. He didn’t want to break the spell. Her breath was soft against his shoulder, her fingers still resting on his ribs like she needed to feel him breathe to keep herself anchored. Every inhale she took matched his without thinking.

They were synced.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked at her.

It hit him like a bullet to the chest.

Those eyes.

Last night, when she was straddling him, when he was deep inside her and she was looking at him like he was the only person on the goddamn planet.

The way she took him, the way she said Let me have you , the way her mouth closed over him, the unbelievable pleasure was eclipsed by her desire for him.

She touched his skin like it was life-sustaining.

He hadn’t just felt wanted. She’d seen him, and the ache that left behind was terrifying.

She hadn’t needed him to fix a damn thing. He hadn’t healed a wound, or saved a life, or carried anyone out of a fire. So, did that mean he hadn’t earned this? Confusion settled in.

She’d just come to him.

That was what killed him.

Her leg shifted slightly, the sheets rustling between them.

He felt the brush of her thigh against his, and his body stirred in instinctive response.

God, he wanted her again. Every part of her.

The slow drag of her mouth, the soft break in her voice when she came, the tears in her eyes when she’d held him like she was afraid to let go.

But it wasn’t just his body that wanted.

It was his soul .

He’d die to protect this woman. No hesitation. No question. But what the hell was he supposed to do with her trust?

With her want ?

It wasn’t just desire anymore. It was a question , echoing through the silence between them.

Her voice was low, still wrapped in sleep, but the words came clear. “How do we do that?” she whispered. “Build this new world?”

His breath caught.

For a beat, he couldn’t answer. The question wasn’t about logistics. It wasn’t about the where or the how or the details.

It was about him .

You, Mateo. Can I build it with you?

He stared at her. Just like that, all his fucking dreams came true.

It scared the hell out of him.

He was a confident bastard. He knew how to clear a building in ten minutes flat. He knew how to keep a teammate alive with nothing but gauze, instinct, and willpower. He could hike through monsoon rain with a broken rib and carry a man out with blood soaking his shirt.

He knew how to serve. How to fight. How to kill. How to heal. How to be a son. A brother. A teammate. A SEAL.

He knew that code. Lived it. Wore it on his soul like armor.

But this woman?

This fucking beautiful, brilliant, damaged soul who laughed like sin and wept like a prayer?

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

She was asking him for a future, and the thing that unmade him wasn’t the question. It was the fact that she asked him .

She was choosing him.

She was choosing him. Wanted him for something more than a brief few nights in Rio.

He closed his eyes, and the prickling behind them caught him off guard.

It hit all at once. Like a detonation under his ribs.

She was choosing him, and he hadn’t fixed a goddamn thing. He hadn’t bled for her. He hadn’t carried her through fire.

She just…took him, asked him for more.

That tore him open.