Page 100 of Brass
His description warms something in my chest, not because it’s flattering but because it feels true. Feels like me, regardless of what name I carry or what life I’m living.
“And us?” I gesture between us. “Is that part of the essence that remains, or just circumstance throwing us together?”
He steps closer, hands coming to rest on my shoulders. “What do you want it to be?”
“I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
“Montana will be the real test. No adrenaline, no immediate danger, no mission parameters. Just us, figuring out who we are together when the world isn’t actively trying to kill us.”
“Technically, the world will still be trying to kill us,” he corrects with characteristic precision. “Just lessactively.”
I laugh despite myself, the tension of the day finally breaking. “Always the optimist.”
“I prefer ‘tactical realist.’” His smile widens, revealing that rare, unguarded version of Ryan I’ve glimpsed only in our most private moments.
I reach up, hand against his cheek. “Well, tactical realist, what happens now?”
“Now?” His eyes darken as he leans into my touch. “Now we have seventy-two hours of complete isolation while the world believes we’re dead. No outside contact. No mission requirements. No immediate threats.”
“Whatever will we do with all that time?” I step closer until our bodies nearly touch.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with possession. “I have some ideas.”
“Care to share?”
Instead of answering, he bridges the small distance between us, lips finding mine with the same precise attention he brings to everything. The kiss deepens immediately, days of tension, triumph, and fear channeling into something electric between us.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rests against mine. “First,” he says, voice rough with desire, “I’m going to take you to bed and remind us both that we’re very much alive.”
“And then?” I ask, hands already working at the buttons of his shirt.
“Then,” he says, guiding me backward toward the bedroom, “we start figuring out who Ryan and Celeste are going to be. Together.”
“Together,” I echo, the word slipping out smoother, more certain than I expect. “I like the sound of that.”
We’re almost to the doorway when the thought hits me.
“Wait,” I murmur, halting with my hands on his chest. “Why didn’t we change our first names?”
He grins, that slow, smug curve that always precedes something completely infuriating—and weirdly hot.
“Because,” he says, backing me the last few steps until my spine meets the doorframe, “when you come, you scream my name like it’s the only word you remember. Figured it’d be safer not to mess with that muscle memory.”
Heat floods my cheeks, spreading lower, sharper. “You’re an asshole.”
“Sure, but…” His mouth brushes mine, cocky and soft all at once. “I’m yours.”
Hours later, I lie awake beside him, watching moonlight trace patterns across the unfamiliar ceiling. Ryan sleeps beside me, one arm still draped protectively across my waist, even in sleep. His breathing is deep and even, his face peaceful in a way it rarely is during waking hours.
Somewhere out there, Phoenix is processing our deaths, reallocating resources, and calculating new threat matrices. Somewhere, Torque may still be alive, enduring God knows what while Ghost works to find him. Somewhere, my editor and Ryan’s mother are hours away from receiving news that will shatter their worlds.
And here, in this isolated cabin, we exist in a strange limbo between lives. No longer who we were, not yet fully who we will become. Just two people who found each other in the chaos, who chose each other despite—or perhaps because of—the circumstances that brought us together.
I should be terrified. Should be mourning the life and identity I’ve lost. Should be consumed with regret, uncertainty, or doubt.
Instead, I stare at Ryan’s sleeping face, counting his slow breaths, and feeling something dangerously close to contentment. Not because this situation is ideal—it’s far from it—but because whatever comes next, I won’t face it alone.
