Page 125 of The Atom Between Us

He undresses with the same efficiency he uses to clean a weapon. Shirt, then pants, then the boxers with a single flick. His body is mapped with scars—old bullet wounds, knife slashes, burns. I trace them with my fingers, memorizing each one as if it were a formula.

He settles between my legs, presses his mouth to mine. I can taste myself on him, he slides in slow and deep. The feeling is instant—a full-body tremor, deep and consuming. He moves with control, never rushing, every thrust measured and exact. The friction is a grinding heat that strips away the last layer of my restraint.

I wrap my legs around his waist, dig my heels into the small of his back, urge him deeper. His breath is hot against my neck, his hands braced on either side of my head. We move together, a machine built for one purpose.

He watches my face the entire time. Not a single blink wasted. When I shudder, he goes harder. When I bite his shoulder, he grins, teeth bared. The sweat between us slicks our bodies, making every slide a frictionless glide—faster, harder, louder. The rhythm becomes a chaotic, beautiful violence that mirrors the fight we just left.

He grabs my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh as he pulls me up to meet the violence of his thrusts. The impact resonates in my bones. I arch back, losing my vision to the rising tide of sensation. The tension coils in my belly, sharp and overwhelming.

And as the world collapses around me, tearing me apart and putting me back together, the only word that breaks through the sound barrier of my climax is his truth:

“LANCE!”

The raw sound of his name—the one he hides from everyone—hits him like a physical blow. His head snaps back, his eyes widening in shock, then filling with a fierce, possessive love. He teeters right over the edge, his control dissolving.

“Fuck, I like it when you say my name,” he growls, his voice thick with the need to reciprocate the honesty.

He plunges one last, final time, and the world goes white. I feel the hot, thick pulse of his climax deep inside me, every muscle in his body seizing as he empties himself. My inner walls clamp down, tight and desperate, milking the last of the sensation. He holds me tight, forehead pressed to my collarbone, both of us shaking.

We stay like that, tangled and spent, until our breathing slows.

After a while, I open my eyes. The lights are still off, but the room feels brighter. He’s staring at me, lips parted, eyes gone soft.

“Still think you have control?” he whispers.

I laugh, then pull him in for another kiss. It’s slower this time, more gentle. There’s no rush. The world outside can wait.

We lie there, bodies intertwined, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel broken.

For the first time, I feel whole. And I know: if the world burns tomorrow, it will be enough.

The first thing I notice is the taste of ozone on my tongue, cold and sharp, like the air in the sub-basement where they used to keep the more dangerous solvents. Then the pressure, a static field gathering at the base of my skull, each pulse snapping off a memory that isn’t quite mine.

I’m running a centrifuge—no, running from a centrifuge—its whine rising as the sample tubes blur, then shatter, spraying iridescent liquid across a bank of blank monitors. The liquid pools into a word, a sigil, but as I reach for it my hand is wrapped in someone else’s glove. A woman’s voice, so familiar it aches, calls my name—Diana, Diana—but I can’t see her face, only the shimmer of her lab coat as she walks away. The corridor she disappears down is lined with doors, each stamped with a different number, each one opening as I pass: a nursery, a firing range, an operating room with a dog on the table and a child’s face watching from the window.

Radiation readings flicker across my vision in afterimage: 0.78, then 1.3, then OFF SCALE. The Geiger counter in my hand shakes like it’s alive. Somewhere behind me, Kang’s voice shouts a warning, but the words are scrambled, syllables falling off like scales.

I try to follow the woman, but the hallway tilts and the numbers reset.

Then I wake.

Or think I do.

The ceiling above is a ragged patchwork of concrete and scavenged plastic, light bleeding in from the gap at the top of the door. My left arm is numb, pins and needles chasing up from the elbow. The rest of me is a tangle of sweat-damp blankets, the wool scratchy and sour against my skin. Kang is next to me, the weight of his thigh pressing hard against mine, both of us still tangled in last night’s exhaustion.

I let myself float for a second, listening to the silence. The Sanctuary is quiet in the pre-dawn—no music, no yelling, just the occasional rumble as someone stokes a distant generator. I try to hold onto the remnants of the dream, but they slip away, replaced by the sticky reality of my own body.

I shift, careful not to jar my shoulder. The bandage has slipped, and I can see the raw seam of the wound, stitched tight and angry. The sight of it makes my stomach turn, though the pain is almost comforting. A proof of life.

Kang mutters in his sleep, breath hissing through his teeth. He’s twisted away, back to me, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the sweat on his neck. His hand twitches, fingers curling into a fist, then splaying open again. The movement is rhythmic, almost deliberate.

Another dream, I think. Or maybe just the residue of being hunted.

“Kang,” I whisper, voice barely there.

No response. He jerks, legs kicking at the blankets, breath coming faster.

I reach out, my good hand brushing his shoulder. He’s burning up, the heat radiating off him in waves. I try again, louder.