The first time you met Cee, she put a knife to your throat.

It wasn't personal. At least, that's what you told yourself as you stared down the blade, her calloused fingers digging into your collar. The greenish glow of the toxic forest moon cast sharp shadows across her face—all tight jaw and narrowed eyes, her breath fogging the visor of her dented helmet.

"Ezra's kid," she'd spat, like the words were poison. "Figures he'd drag another leech into this."

You'd bristled at that. "He's my father."

"And that makes you what? Innocent?" Her laugh was hollow. "You're just like him. All talk, no spine."

She'd let you go with a shove that sent you stumbling into the mud. That was two months ago.

Two months of forced proximity, of sharing the same cramped prospector's hut while the storms raged outside. Two months of trading barbs over ration packs, of her rolling her eyes every time you bragged about a score, of you mocking her for being so damn by-the-book.

And now—

Now you're pinned under her in the middle of the aurelac fields, her knee digging into your thigh, her glove clamped over your mouth.

"Shut up," she hisses, her breath hot against your ear. "You want the whole damn camp to hear us?"

You mumble something against her palm, and she peels it back just enough for you to whisper: "You're sitting on my ribs, precious."

Her nose scrunches. "Don't call me that."

"Then get off me."

She doesn't. Not right away. Instead, she hesitates—just for a second—and you feel it. The way her breath hitches. The way her weight shifts, just slightly, against you. The way her eyes drop to your mouth before she jerks her gaze back up.

It's the same look she gave you last week when you stitched up her arm after a harvester backfired. The same one from three nights ago, when you caught her staring at you across the fire, the glow painting her cheeks amber.

You swallow. "Cee—"

"Quiet." She snaps her head toward the tree line, where voices echo—prospectors on patrol. Her fingers tighten on your shoulder. "We move on my signal."

But neither of you move. Not yet.

The air between you is thick and heavy, almost palpable. Her thigh is still pressed to yours, her skin rough against yours through the fabric of your clothes. Her pulse jumps under your thumb, erratic and fast, as if she's trying to outrun something. The air between you is thick with something hotter than the moon's toxins, something neither of you will name, but both of you feel it, pulsing between you like a second heartbeat.

It's a good thing your father doesn't see it, otherwise he started talking about how such affection makes people weak again.