Thorri was still there. That was the problem. Every instinct they’d built over years—move fast, trust no one, leave before dawn—shattered against the simple fact of Jax’s shoulder pressed warm against theirs.
Jax’s grin faded into something quieter, rarer. “I don’t plan on it.”
They didn’t kiss. Not then. But Thorri reached over and laced their fingers through his, and Jax held on like he’d been drowning for years.
The first time Thorri saw Jax laugh—really laugh, not the sharp, defensive thing he used like a blade—it cracked something open in Thorri’s chest. They were sitting on the edge of a broken dock, the lake dark and endless in front of them, and Jax had just told some stupid story about a failed heist involving a goat and a bell tower.