Sage

His lips are warm, but the kiss isn’t gentle. There’s no softness in the way his hands pull me close, no hesitation in the way his mouth moves against mine. It’s a storm—a clash of raw need and frustration, all the things we’ve been holding back crashing together at once.

For a second, I let myself get swept away. My hands clutch the front of his shirt, dragging him closer because I need this—need him—even if I don’t want to admit it.

But then, like a splash of cold water, reality crashes back over me. This isn’t how we fix things. It doesn’t change the fact that Dash still sees me as someone he has to save. That his need to protect me feels like a weight, even when it’s wrapped up in something as consuming as this.

I pull back, breaking the kiss. My breaths come fast and shallow, and my hands are still fisted in his shirt, but I manage to push the words past the lump in my throat.

“This… this isn’t solving anything, Dash.”

His forehead stays pressed against mine, his breaths just as ragged as mine. He doesn’t let go, his hands still firm at my waist, holding me there like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “But tell me it doesn’t make things clearer.”

I stare at him, trying to find steady ground in the chaos he’s dragged me into. “Clearer?” I echo, disbelief cutting through my tone. “How does this make anything clearer?”

His hands tighten at my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space between us. “Because this,” he says, his voice soft but fierce, “proves that I can’t stand the thought of losing you, Sage. Not in a fight, not to Reeves’s men, not to anything. You’re all I can think about.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. For a moment, all I want to do is believe him. To let myself sink into his arms and trust that everything will be okay because he says it will.

But I can’t. Not when I know we’re just going to keep slamming into the same walls.

I press my hands against his chest, putting space between us even though it feels like I’m tearing myself in half. “Dash, wanting me—caring about me—that’s not the problem. The problem is that you don’t trust me to take care of myself. And this,” I gesture between us, “doesn’t change that.”

His jaw tightens, and I can see the storm brewing in his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he says quietly, his voice a raw whisper. “It’s that I don’t trust the world not to rip you away from me.”

I want to scream at him, want to make him understand. “You can’t control the world, Dash,” I snap, my voice rising. “And you sure as hell can’t control me. What happens the next time I throw myself into something dangerous? Are you going to step in and risk your life again? Because I can’t watch you do that, either.”

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His hands drop from my waist, and the sudden absence of his touch feels like a knife cutting through me. The space between us grows wider, and I hate how much colder the air feels without him.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you alive,” he says, his voice breaking like glass. “If that means stepping in, I’ll do it every damn time, Sage.”

My chest tightens, frustration and something warmer tangling together in a mess of emotions I can’t untangle. “And what if that gets you killed?” I ask, my voice cracking. “What then, Dash? Am I supposed to just live with that?”

He doesn’t answer. His silence is heavy, his gaze locked on mine, and for a moment, the fire between us dims.

“I don’t have an answer for that,” he says finally, his voice low and defeated. “But I’m not sorry for what I did today. And I won’t be sorry the next time, either.”

The vulnerability in his voice is like a fist tightening around my heart. I look at him, at the raw honesty in his eyes, and I feel like I’m staring at a battle neither of us can win.

“This isn’t fair,” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “To either of us.”

His eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, I see something unguarded there—something that makes me want to reach for him again, even though I know I shouldn’t.

“No, it’s not,” he admits. “But that doesn’t mean I can stop.”

The words hang between us, heavy with everything we’re not saying.

I let out a shaky breath, stepping back. “We need to end this negotiation,” I say quietly. “Get back home. Maybe then…” I trail off, the words catching in my throat.

“Maybe,” Dash echoes, his voice hollow.

Dash

The tent is too quiet, the kind of quiet that presses against your chest and makes it impossible to breathe evenly. Sage is sitting on her bedroll, her knees pulled to her chest as she scribbles something in her notebook. Her shoulders are tight, her posture stiff, and she hasn’t looked at me since we stepped inside.

I should say something. Try to fix what’s broken between us. But the words feel stuck in my throat, tangled in everything I can’t admit out loud.

“We need to talk,” I say finally, breaking the silence.

She doesn’t look up. “We already did.”

“No, we argued,” I reply, my frustration bubbling up. “That’s not the same thing.”

She exhales sharply, setting her notebook down and finally meeting my gaze. “Fine. What do you want to say?”

I run a hand through my hair, trying to find the right words. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. But you have to understand—”

“Do I?” she interrupts, her tone sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you don’t think I can handle myself. You jumped in today like I needed rescuing, Dash. Like I couldn’t hold my own.”

“That’s not what it was,” I snap, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “You walked into a situation that could’ve gone south in seconds. Do you know what those men would’ve done if they thought they could get away with it?”

Her gaze softens, just slightly. “This isn’t about me being helpless, Dash. It’s about us being partners. And I can’t be your partner if you keep stepping in like I can’t handle anything.”

“I trust you,” I murmur, the words almost sticking in my throat. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared.”

Her breath hitches. “Scared of what?”

“Of losing you.”

Her breath catches, and for a moment, everything else fades away. Before I can think better of it, I close the distance between us, my lips brushing hers. It’s softer this time, slower, but no less consuming.

Her hands find my shoulders, her touch hesitant but grounding, and the tension shifts, becoming something warmer, something quieter.

But then she pulls back, her forehead resting against mine as she exhales shakily. “This doesn’t fix anything,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

“I know,” I say, my hands still cradling her face. “But it doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

She pulls away completely, her hands falling to her sides as she looks at me. “We need to get through tomorrow. That’s all that matters right now.”

I nod, though the knot in my chest doesn’t ease. As she lies down, her back to me, the space between us feels bigger than ever.

I don’t move.

And neither does she.