The city had begun to sleep, but the Dock still clung to their skin.
Arkellin unlocked the safehouse door with one hand, the other steadying Myra as she leaned against him. Her hair stuck damp against her cheeks, her skirt torn at the hem from the chase through steel corridors. The air inside smelled faintly of leather and gun oil, neutral and cold—a stark contrast to the chaos they'd just left behind.
Myra didn't wait for the lights.
The moment the door clicked shut, she pressed into him, fingers gripping his bloodstained shirt as though letting go would mean sinking back into the nightmare. Her breath came fast, shallow, against his throat.
"Don't leave me," she whispered, voice raw, desperate.
Arkellin stood still for a beat, his chest rising steady against hers, his hand still hovering near the pistol holstered at his back. He could feel her trembling, the urgency in her grip, the way fear had melted into something hotter, sharper.
When her lips found his jaw, soft but insistent, the last of his hesitation burned away.
They stumbled together into the living space, shadows tangled in the dim spill of neon filtering through tall windows. Myra tugged at his shirt, tearing it free from his trousers, her hands roaming with no rhythm but need. The fabric hit the floor in silence, leaving only the sound of their ragged breaths.
Arkellin answered with force, but not recklessness. His coat slid from his shoulders, his hands trailing down her back, anchoring her when her knees nearly gave out. The taste of salt and iron lingered in his mouth, the Dock refusing to let go, but Myra's kiss drowned it, replacing it with fire.
She pressed him back toward the sofa, urgency in every movement. Her blouse slipped open under his fingers, the perfume she'd worn at the gala still clinging faintly to the fabric—floral, heady, almost intoxicating.
"Here," she gasped, pulling him down with her. "Now."
The world narrowed to touch and breath, to the friction of fabric and skin, to the sound of her voice breaking in his ear.
Arkellin's restraint cracked. The memories of betrayal and loss that haunted him blurred under her heat, her insistence, her need. For the first time in years, he wasn't drowning alone.
Their silhouettes tangled in the half-light, a storm of movement and sound. The neon outside painted them in shifting colors—red, blue, white—like fragments of the city itself bearing witness.
Later, the room lay quiet but charged, air thick with the echo of what had passed. Myra curled against him on the sofa, chest rising unevenly, skin flushed and damp. Her fingers traced his jaw as though confirming he was real, not another shadow she would lose.
Arkellin stared at the ceiling for a long moment, his breathing heavy but steady. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, silent but absolute.
The Dock was far behind them now.
But the fire between them had only just begun.
Fade to black.
The city's hum lingered faint beyond the windows, muffled by glass and distance. Inside, the safehouse had fallen into a heavy silence, save for the sound of two hearts slowing after chaos.
Arkellin shifted first. He gathered Myra against him, her body pliant from exhaustion but still clinging as though release would undo her. With a single movement, he lifted her into his arms. She startled, then looped her arms around his neck, breath hot against his skin.
"Where are we going?" she murmured, voice low, still tinged with fire.
"Clean up," he said simply. His voice carried no softness, but the steadiness of it soothed her like a promise.
The bathroom light was warm, golden, casting everything in a glow that softened the rawness of blood and bruises. Steam began to curl from the shower as Arkellin turned the faucet, the hiss of water filling the space.
The air thickened quickly—heat rising, mist settling against mirrors until their reflections blurred. The scent of soap and fresh shampoo overtook the lingering iron from the Dock, the harsh tang of gunpowder washing into something more human.
Myra leaned against the tiled wall, watching him through lashes damp with humidity. Drops of water ran down his shoulders, tracing along the hard lines of his chest. Her breath hitched, not from fear now, but from the way survival sharpened want into something fierce.
"Not enough," she whispered.
Arkellin's gaze found hers. The weight of it pinned her in place, even before his hand reached for her.
---
The shower embraced them both, heat spilling down in endless streams. Skin slicked against skin, steam curling around them like smoke from an unseen fire. Their laughter came once—soft, surprised—then dissolved into gasps, into the kind of silence that was louder than any scream.
Every movement carried urgency again, but this time laced with tenderness: washing away Dock's dirt, cleansing bruises, tracing scars with lips instead of pain. The scent of shampoo clung to Myra's hair, sweet and dizzying, as Arkellin pressed his face into the crown of it, grounding himself in something alive, something his.
The glass fogged thick, silhouettes blurring—two shapes tangling, shifting, one holding, one yielding, both refusing to let go.
---
Later, Myra leaned against him beneath the spray, her chest rising unevenly, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. He held her steady, water streaming down their bodies, the sound masking the roughness of their breaths.
Even here, even now, he kept a fraction of control. A restraint she felt but didn't understand. The way he pulled her closer only to hold back at the very last, as though protecting her even from himself.
And she loved him for it.
Her lips brushed his ear, a whisper drowned in steam: "Stay… just stay."
Arkellin closed his eyes. His answer wasn't words, but the way his arms tightened, anchoring her as if the Dock, the city, the ghosts outside the safehouse no longer mattered.
The safehouse bedroom was cloaked in half-darkness. Only the amber glow of the bedside lamp lit the edges of the room, warm against the shadows. The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, a faint percussion against the tall windows, blending with the low hum of the city beyond.
Arkellin lay on his back, bare skin still damp from the shower, the sheets tangled loosely around his waist. Myra was curled against him, her head resting on his chest, hair damp with shampoo and spreading its floral scent across his skin. Her breathing had evened out, the rise and fall of her body slow, delicate, peaceful.
He stared at the ceiling, eyes open, unblinking. His arm rested around her waist, fingers tracing the small ridges of her spine, absent yet deliberate.
The scent of soap still lingered, mixing with the faint musk of sweat and heat that clung to the sheets. The fabric beneath him was warm, alive, carrying the echo of desperate passion spent not long ago. But instead of peace, his chest ached with the familiar weight of memory.
The Dock remembers.
The words coiled in his mind. He saw flashes in the quiet: blood spreading across wet planks, a hand slipping from his grip, eyes closing forever. He felt the same salt sting in his throat, the same hollow rage that once consumed him.
He tightened his hold on Myra unconsciously. She stirred slightly in her sleep, nuzzling closer, lips brushing the curve of his ribs.
Arkellin exhaled slowly, the sound more a growl than a sigh. He turned his head, pressing his nose into her damp hair, inhaling the scent of shampoo that clung stubbornly despite the Dock's ghost still etched into his senses. It grounded him—reminded him that this time was different. She was still here. Breathing. Warm. Alive.
But survival came with a price. He knew it. Every scar across his body, every bloodied night whispered the same truth.
He couldn't protect her from this world without bringing her deeper into it.
Arkellin's eyes slid toward the nightstand. His shirt—half-dry now—was folded messily there, the black fabric still smelling of salt and iron despite the shower. His pistol rested just above it, gleaming faintly under the lamp. A reminder. A promise.
He lowered his gaze back to Myra. Her cheek rose and fell with the rhythm of his chest, her fingers loosely curled in the sheets as though afraid of waking to emptiness.
For the first time in years, Arkellin felt the crack in his armor widen—not from weakness, but from need.
He whispered, almost too softly for even himself to hear, "Not this time. I won't lose you."
The room offered no answer. Only the steady rain, the warmth of her body against his, and the silent weight of the gun at arm's reach.
Morning crept in quietly, soft light slipping through half-drawn curtains. The rain had stopped, leaving the windows glazed with streaks of water that caught the early sun.
Arkellin stirred first. He was still on his back, one arm draped around Myra's sleeping form. Her hair, faintly scented of shampoo, spread across his chest like spilled silk. She breathed in slow, even waves, lips parted slightly, her bare shoulder rising with each breath.
The sheets were tangled low around their bodies, still carrying the faint musk of the night before. The room was warm, heavy with the mixture of perfume, soap, and the lingering salt of skin.
For the first time in hours, there was peace.
Until the vibration came.
A dull, steady buzz against the nightstand. Arkellin's eyes opened fully, sharp and alert in an instant. He turned his head toward the sound: his phone, screen pulsing with light.
He reached out carefully, not waking Myra, and slid it into his palm.
Incoming Message: Jonas.
Board Meeting. Mandatory. 9 A.M. Don't be late.
His jaw tightened. He stared at the words, the sharpness of duty slicing through the haze of intimacy. The board had chosen their moment well—summoning him just as the city began to wake, pulling him back into the world he had no intention of belonging to.
Myra stirred faintly at his side, murmuring something incoherent, shifting closer, her hand brushing against his ribs. He glanced down at her face—soft, unguarded in sleep, lips curved in the faintest of smiles.
For a moment, Arkellin allowed his hand to linger against her hair, stroking once through the damp strands. Then he slipped free from her hold, rising soundlessly from the bed.
The phone screen dimmed and went dark, but the weight of the message pressed into him heavier than steel.
Arkellin stood at the edge of the room, the early light catching the white streak in his hair, his figure carved in half-shadow.
Peace was over.
The board was calling.