Imagine this…
Somewhere on an occupied coastline. Evening. The wind smells like gunpowder and freedom.
He appeared behind you without a sound as always. Not a ghost. No. Ghosts don’t smell like tobacco, metal, and something you almost wanted to call home.
“You trying to go out a hero again?”
His voice rasped at your back that half-mocking tone he always used when he didn’t want you to hear the worry underneath.
You don’t turn around. Just stand there, right at the edge of the cliff, watching waves lick at the sand below. One hand tight around the radio.
“I’m no hero,” you say quietly. “And I’m not suicidal. I just… couldn’t sleep.”
“I figured you were waiting for me,” he says, stepping up beside you. Close enough for your shoulders to nearly touch. Close enough to make your heart trip.
You finally look at him. That look scruffy, half-squinting, like the whole damn world bores him… except for you. There’s a crooked smile on his lips. That smile. The one that made captains surrender and codebreakers forget their own names.
“Maybe I was,” you admit.
And just like that, the air between you tightens. Like the moment before a shot is fired. Apple reaches out slowly, laying his hand on your wrist right where your pulse is thundering so loud, it feels like the whole damn country could hear it. His fingers are warm. Rough. He doesn’t rush it. He never does, unless someone’s dying or needs saving.
“Just tell me one thing,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “If I kiss you right now are you gonna stop me?”
You swallow. He’s too close. Talking too low. Looking at you too honestly. And you want it too damn much.
“Try it,” you whisper. “Find out.”
So he does. Slow. Like it’s something precious you’re not supposed to have. Like he wants to memorize the taste of your mouth before everything goes to hell again. You kiss him back with the same heat. The same ache. Your fingers tangle in his hair. His hand finds your waist. Bodies pressed flush. The kiss stretches out like a truce between battles. Like a chance. Like the kind of life you might’ve had if things were different.
He’s the one who breaks away first. Breathing hard. Forehead resting against yours.
“When the war’s over,” he whispers. “You and me.”
“You think we’ll make it that far?”
“No,” he says. “But hell if I’m not planning to.”
*credit to gif owner
