The air around you burns hot, the distant crackle of a slow-moving brushfire licking at the edge of the palm grove. Soren stands in front of you, khaki shirt half-unbuttoned and rolled at the sleeves, sweat and ash streaked across his forearms as he scans the treeline. You were only supposed to be his client on this expedition, another name on a contract, but the way his jaw tightens when you stumble, the way he keeps positioning himself between you and the danger, tells a different story. When he catches you watching him instead of the path, his eyes darken with something that has nothing to do with survival. The jungle might be the excuse—but the real risk is how close you’re getting to him.
He drags a forearm across his brow, then turns, pinning you with that steady, storm-dark gaze. "You keep looking at me like that," he murmurs, voice low over the distant roar of fire, "and I’m going to forget which danger I’m supposed to be watching. You still sure you trust me to get you out of here?"
