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“I could refuse to help you again. I could sit in that room and do nothing while your systems burn.”

“You could.” I’m close enough now that I can see the pulse in her throat, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath. “You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, Davina. You couldn’t resist the last puzzle. You won’t be able to resist the next one.”

Her jaw tightens. “You think you know me.”

“I know you better than you think.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

I step closer. “I know you’re scared but you won’t show it. I know you’re angry but you won’t let it control you. I know you’re brilliant and stubborn and you can’t walk away from a problem even when it would be smarter to quit.”

She tries to turn away, to break the moment, but I catch her wrist the same way I did in the control room.

She stops. Looks at my hand on her arm, then up at my face.

“Let me go,” she says.

“No.”

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“I said no.” I don’t loosen my grip. “You came here to confront me. You wanted my attention. Now you have it.”

“I didn’t want—”

“You didn’t want what, this?” I pull her closer, eliminating the distance between us. “Be honest with yourself.”

“You’re delusional.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

She tries to pull away again, but I don’t let her. My other hand comes up to her waist, holding her in place, and for a moment we’re frozen like that, her body pressed against mine, her face inches away, both of us breathing like we’ve been running.

“Let me go,” she says again, but her voice is softer now. Less certain.

“Do you really want me to?”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are on my mouth, and I can feel the tension in her body, the way she’s caught between wanting to escape and wanting to stay.

I don’t give her time to decide.

The kiss happens before I can stop myself. One moment I’m holding her in place, the next my mouth is on hers, and she’s making a sound that isn’t quite protest and isn’t quite surrender.

She’s inexperienced. I realize it almost immediately by the way she holds herself, as if she doesn’t quite know what to do with her hands. She responds to my movements instead of initiating her own. It should make me stop. It should remind me of all the reasons why this is wrong.

It doesn’t.

Instead, I slow down. I take my time. I kiss her like I have all the patience in the world, like I’m not burning up inside, like this isn’t the only thing I’ve been able to think about for days.

She responds. Tentatively at first, then with more confidence. Her hands come up to my chest—not pushing away, just resting there, feeling the beat of my heart under her palms.

I walk her backward until her shoulders hit the wall. She gasps against my mouth, and I swallow the sound, pressing closer, pinning her in place with my body.

My hand slides from her waist to the hem of her shirt. I hesitate for a moment—not because I don’t want this, but because I do, and that’s the problem. I want this too much.