It started with a kiss.
But it didn't stay there.
The moment Sam's mouth met Lilly's again, something broke loose between them—something raw and reckless, forged in lies and longing, desperation and devotion.
Lilly backed them toward the makeshift cot in the corner of the safehouse, but they didn't make it. Sam pushed her against the wall first, lips on her throat, teeth grazing that scar near her collarbone like she was tasting every piece of the life Lilly never talked about.
"God, I've wanted this," Sam whispered, breath hot, fingers trembling as she slid them under Lilly's shirt. "Wanted you. Even when I hated you."
Lilly grabbed her wrist, firm. "Then hate me harder."
Their clothes came off in pieces—torn, tossed, forgotten—until there was nothing but skin and heat and need. Sam's hands roamed over Lilly's bare chest, her stomach, her back, as if memorizing topography carved from survival. Lilly's body flinched at some of the touches—not from pain, but from startled sensitivity, like no one had touched her with reverence in years.
Sam slowed.
"Are you okay?"
Lilly's eyes burned. "I don't know how to do this soft."
Sam brushed her lips along Lilly's jaw, her breath a lullaby against scars. "Then don't. Burn me."
So, Lilly did.
She pressed Sam down onto the mattress, her weight grounding them both, her mouth following the trail of goosebumps her fingers left behind. Sam arched beneath her, gasping, clutching at her shoulders like she might fly apart otherwise.
It wasn't just lust.
It was grief. It was war. It was every night they'd spent lying to each other, now crashing down in the shape of a kiss. It was punishment and apology and promise, all wrapped up in sweat-slick skin and whispered names.
And when they finally slowed—bodies tangled, slick with effort, hearts pounding like gunfire in their chests—Sam buried her face in Lilly's neck and whispered, "This was never pretend. Not for me."
Lilly didn't answer right away. Her hand curled over Sam's heart like a secret.
Then: "I'd kill for you."
Sam's voice cracked. "You already have."
They didn't sleep much. Not really.
They touched in the dark like confessionals, in between words neither of them could say out loud yet. Gentle. Rough. Slow. Desperate. The way only two people can when they've spent too long pretending, they didn't want this. Didn't need this.
Didn't feel this.
And by the time morning threatened to crack open the sky, they were still wrapped around each other, breathing in tandem.
Lilly traced circles on Sam's bare back. "If I die tomorrow…"
"You won't," Sam whispered.
"But if I do…"
Sam pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. Her voice was soft but steel-edged. "Then tonight will ruin me."