Page 49 of Code Name: Grit

“That I’m done fighting this,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. “That I want to know every part of you.”

I leaned forward, my lips finding hers—not with the desperate heat of our kiss in the panic room, but with gentle intent. She responded immediately, her hands sliding up my chest to my shoulders as she pressed closer.

When we broke apart, her eyes remained closed for a moment longer, a soft smile playing at her lips.

“I really like kissing you,” she murmured.

I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It feels right.”

Her fingers traced the line of my jaw as her eyes met mine, and she smiled. “Finally.”

Our second kiss deepened quickly, her body melting against mine as my arms tightened around her. Her taste, her scent, consumed me.

Lumi’s hands moved to the buttons of my shirt, hesitating briefly.

“We don’t have to rush this,” I said against her mouth.

She pulled back slightly. “I know.” Her eyes met mine, vulnerable yet determined. “But I’ve waited long enough.”

Despite her words, I caught the flicker of uncertainty. “Let’s slow down,” I said, catching her hands in mine and kissing her knuckles. “I want to do this right.”

Relief mingled with disappointment in her expression. “You’re not changing your mind, are you?”

“Not a chance.” I stood, lifting her in my arms.

I carried her to the kitchen, where I set her on the counter and began rummaging through the cabinets. “Let’s have dinner first.”

She laughed, the sound filling the cabin with warmth. “Are you going to cook?”

“If heating canned soup counts.”

“It doesn’t,” she said, sliding off the counter.

We moved around each other in the small kitchen, the domesticity of the moment striking me as both foreign and right. Her shoulder brushed mine as she reached past me for a cutting board. My hand lingered on her waist as I moved behind her to grab plates from a shelf.

I opened a bottle of wine I found in the pantry while Lumi assembled the ingredients for a simple pasta dish. The rhythm we fell into felt natural, as if we’d been doing this for years instead of hours.

“You’re good at this,” I said as she expertly diced an onion.

“We hardly ever went out to eat, so cooking was what we did.”

“Tell me about the places where you lived,” I said, leaning against the counter beside her.

She shared stories as she cooked—a mountain cabin in Colorado, the villa in Italy, an apartment above a bookshop in Paris. Each place temporary, each departure inevitable.

“We never stayed anywhere long enough for it to feel permanent,” she said, stirring the sauce. “But we found ways to make it work.”

“And now?” I asked.

She glanced up at me. “Now, I’m thinking about what permanence might feel like.”

I stepped behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pressing a kiss to her neck. She leaned back against me, spatula still in hand.

“This feels right,” I murmured against her skin.

“It does,” she agreed, turning in my arms. “Though the sauce might burn if you keep distracting me.”

I reluctantly released her, content to watch as she finished preparing dinner. We ate at the small table by the window, the lake now dark beyond the glass.

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