Attraction didn't arrive like desire.
It crept in quietly disguised as concern, as habit, as the instinct to reach before thinking better of it.That was what made it dangerous.
Kairo noticed it first in the mornings.
He'd come down early, shoulders stiff, mind already in fight mode, and find Naya on the terrace stretching, breathing, the dawn painting her skin gold. She moved with control, every motion economical, lethal and graceful all at once.
He told himself he was assessing her the way a fighter assessed an opponent.
But opponents didn't make his chest tighten.
She noticed it later, in smaller things.
The way he remembered how she took her coffee. The way he slowed his steps to match hers without realizing it. The way he listened not waiting to speak, not posturing, just… present.
Men like Kairo Blackwell weren't supposed to be gentle.
And women like Naya Cross weren't supposed to want gentleness.
They both refused to name what was growing between them.Refusal felt safer.
The moment came on a quiet afternoon.
No threats. No alarms.
Just rain. It trapped them indoors, drumming softly against glass walls. Kairo stood by the window, watching the storm roll in. His ribs still ached—old injuries speaking in weather.
Naya noticed the wince.
"Sit," she said.
He sighed dramatically. "You love ordering me around."
"I love you alive."He sat.
She knelt in front of him, checking the healing bruise with professional focus. Her fingers were cool, steady.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"Only when I breathe," he replied. "Or move. Or exist."She huffed a quiet laugh before she could stop herself.They froze.
It was such a small sound—but it changed everything.Kairo looked at her like he'd just won a title he didn't know existed.
"There it is," he said softly.She straightened. "There's nothing."
"You laugh like you forgot to be careful."
Her jaw tightened. "Care gets people killed."
"So does isolation."The words slipped out before he could stop them.They stared at each other—too close now, breaths overlapping.For a second, just one reckless second, Naya imagined leaning in.
Not for heat.For comfort.
The realization terrified her.
She stood abruptly, stepping back. "You should rest."
"I am," he said. "Until you run."
She stiffened. "I don't run."
"You do," he replied gently. "Just not with your feet."
That cut deeper than any insult.
"You don't know me," she said, voice sharp.
"I know you cook when you can't sleep. I know you flinch at helicopters. I know you look at doors before people." He softened. "And I know you care."
Silence swallowed the room.
Naya turned away, busying herself with nothing.
"You're projecting," she said.
"Maybe," he admitted. "Or maybe we're both pretending we don't feel it because feeling means risk."
She faced him again, eyes guarded, voice steady. "You don't pay me to feel."
"No," he said quietly. "I pay you to protect me."
"And that's all I'll do."The finality in her tone was armor.
Kairo nodded, accepting the boundary even as something inside him rebelled.
Later that night, long after she'd retreated to her room, Kairo lay awake, staring at the ceiling.He realized something unsettling.
For the first time in his life, he wanted to protect someone who wasn't himself.
Down the hall, Naya pressed her back against her door, eyes closed, heart racing.
She realized something worse.
She trusted him.And trust was the one thing neither of them could afford to lose.
So they did what fighters always do.
They pulled their guards back up.
And pretended the moment never happened.