Chapter Text
A loose pane in the wall trembles with every gust of wind, rattling in time with the low, hungry moan of the storm pressing against the house. The smell of scorched sand seeps through the boards. Somewhere behind a half-shut door, Saul’s snoring drifts in low and rhythmic—assurance that for tonight, the danger has passed.
V shifts her weight on the sagging couch, leather creaking under her as she leans forward to set a cracked glass between them. Panam watches the motion, her eyes half-lidded, jaw set in that familiar hard line—tired but wound up, like a live wire that hasn’t stopped humming.
“Figured you’d be asleep by now,” V says, voice low, almost lazy.
Panam scoffs softly. “Storm’s too loud. Mind won’t shut up.” Her arm drapes over the back of the couch, the tips of her fingers brushing the back of V’s neck—not a mistake, not an accident. She doesn’t move them.
V lets it happen. Breathes through the spark that touch lights up along her spine.
“You think Saul’s dreaming of all the ways he can lecture us tomorrow?” V asks, shifting closer so her thigh is against Panam’s. There’s heat in the contact, and V doesn’t retreat.
Panam smirks, but it’s tight. “Probably drafting a ten-page speech in his sleep. Gonna start with ‘you’re reckless’ and end with ‘you should’ve consulted me first.’” Her voice dips into mimicry, but her tone thins with fatigue and something else—something heavier.
V watches her from the side, gaze trailing up the curve of her cheekbone, the faint smudge of dirt near her temple. Her hair’s damp with sweat and grit, strands stuck to her neck. V swallows.
“We did good, Panam,” V says quietly. “You did good.”
Panam’s lips twitch. She looks away, then back—just long enough for her eyes to meet V’s. “So did you.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward. Not quite comfortable either. It’s the kind of pause where both women feel the gravity between them, like the storm outside’s somehow gotten into the walls of the room and started dragging everything toward a single point. A single breath.
Panam leans back slowly, her shoulder brushing V’s. She closes her eyes for half a second, then opens them again.
“What’re you staring at?” she murmurs, voice lower now.
V smiles without showing teeth. “You. Obviously.”
Panam huffs a laugh, but her chest rises faster. “You always this smooth when we’re not dodging bullets?”
V shifts her legs just enough so their thighs are touching again—this time, more firmly.
“Nah. Only when I’m stuck in a dust-bowl murder shack with a beautiful woman and a bottle of synth-whiskey.”
Panam’s laugh stutters, caught in her throat. She shakes her head like she wants to dismiss it, but she doesn’t pull away.
The storm outside swells. Inside, the silence they leave between them starts to vibrate with things unsaid.
Panam rolls her neck slowly, the tendons in her throat shifting under flushed skin. “That ‘beautiful woman’ line…” she murmurs, eyes half-lidded, “…worked better than it had any right to.”
V chuckles. “Guess I should’ve led with it.”
The tension pulls taut between them again, and this time, it doesn’t ease. Their knees touch now. Neither moves. The air smells of ozone, sweat, old wood, and something smoky from the whiskey. The lamp flickers once, then steadies.
V glances down at Panam’s hand—resting on her thigh, fingers curled slightly in, rough-knuckled from years behind the wheel and a rifle. She shifts her own hand closer. Slowly. Deliberately. When their fingers graze, Panam doesn’t flinch.
“You ever get tired of pretending you don’t know I want you?” V asks, voice low, liquid and unflinching.
Panam’s breath catches—barely audible, but there. She turns her head, their faces inches apart now. The glint in her eyes sharpens like the edge of a drawn blade.
“Bold,” she whispers.
“I’m not subtle,” V says.
“No,” Panam agrees, voice suddenly husky. “You’re really, really not.”
Their hands move. Not a grab, not a full hold—just fingertips, grazing, finding. V’s pinkie brushes the inside of Panam’s ring finger. Panam’s thumb twitches, then presses lightly to the back of V’s hand, testing the pressure. V feels heat rush up her arm from the spot.
The wind slams hard against the wall behind them. Neither blinks.
Panam’s gaze drops to V’s lips. Stays there.
V tilts her head just a little. “If I kissed you right now, would you stop me?”
A beat passes. Two.
Panam’s voice is barely audible. “I don’t know.”
V leans in just a fraction. Her lips hover near Panam’s cheekbone—close enough that when she speaks, Panam can feel the words.
“You could ask me not to.”
Panam turns her head, barely. Now their noses are almost touching. Her breath fans against V’s mouth, warm and shallow.
“I don’t want to ask,” she whispers.
Their foreheads nearly touch. The room spins slightly, or maybe it’s just the whiskey, or maybe it’s just her. V’s skin is tight with adrenaline, arousal, restraint.
Panam’s fingers slip between V’s. Their hands lock.
But still—no kiss. Not yet.
Panam’s grip tightens around V’s fingers—not painful, but sudden. Her eyes close for a second, lashes dark against her cheek. V doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The air between them feels volatile, electric, one more breath from combustion.
Then Panam pulls back. Just enough to break the closeness, not enough to break the tension. Her hand remains in V’s, but her body angles away, as if she’s trying to wrest control of her own pulse.
“Shit,” she breathes. “V…”
V watches her. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t smile. Just waits.
Panam shakes her head, jaw tight. “This isn’t smart.”
“Never said it was.”
Panam exhales, a raw edge in it now. She pulls her hand free—not roughly, but with effort. Rubs her fingers together like she’s trying to forget the shape of V’s.
“You don’t get it,” she mutters. “I can’t afford to fuck this up. With you. With us. Everything’s hanging on frayed wires already.”
V doesn’t look away. “Then stop pretending like you’re not holding the match.”
Panam turns, her back hitting the couch cushions hard. “You think I haven’t tried to shut this down? Every goddamn time I look at you, I feel like I’m—” She stops. Laughs, bitter and quiet. “Like I’m balancing on a tripwire with no safety net.”
Her voice cracks at the edge.
“I want you, V. I’ve wanted you for longer than I’m ready to admit. But it’s a fucked-up world and I’ve already lost too many people and if I let you in and it goes wrong—” Her breath catches again. “I don’t think I’ll survive it.”
V slides closer again, slow, calculated. She doesn’t reach for Panam’s hand—she places hers on Panam’s knee instead, fingers warm and certain.
“You think I’m just here to make you fall?” V says, voice soft. “I’d catch you. I swear to fuck, Panam, I’d catch you.”
Panam looks at her—really looks—and her mouth opens like she’s going to say something else. Instead, her eyes glass just a little. Not tears. Just heat. Pressure.
Her hand inches toward V again.
But she doesn’t touch.
Panam’s hand hovers in the space between them, uncertain. Her eyes lock onto V’s like they’re tethered—like she can’t look anywhere else even if she tried.
V leans in. Not all at once—just enough to close that charged little inch of air between them. Her hand slides from Panam’s knee up to the sharp line of her jaw, fingers threading behind her ear. Her thumb brushes the hollow beneath it, slow and reverent.
Panam doesn’t stop her.
Their faces draw close again, foreheads brushing now, breath mixing. The room shrinks around them, and the storm outside seems to dull beneath the gravity of this moment.
“I keep thinking about it,” V whispers, her lips brushing against the edge of Panam’s cheekbone.
Panam’s hands find V’s waist—not pulling, just resting there, gripping her leather tank gently like it’s the only thing anchoring her.
“About what?” she whispers back.
“This,” V says. “You. Us. How good you’d feel. How good you’d taste.”
A soft sound escapes Panam’s throat. Her fingers tighten against V’s sides.
Their lips graze—barely. A brush, feather-light, a ghost of a kiss not yet given. V doesn’t press further. She waits. Dares her.
Panam’s eyes close. She breathes in like it hurts.
And then—
“No,” she whispers. It’s not cold. It’s full of ache. She presses her forehead firmly to V’s, eyes still shut. “Fuck. We can’t.”
V holds still. Her hand stays on Panam’s face, but she doesn’t chase her.
“I want to,” Panam says, her voice raw and low. “More than anything. But not like this. Not tonight. I’m—” she pauses, breath shuddering. “I’m too fucking close to breaking.”
V nods, even though it hurts. Her body burns, her lips throb, and her skin screams for contact. But she doesn’t close the gap.
Instead, she lowers her hand, inch by inch, until it falls away.
Panam leans into her one last time. Soft. Desperate. She rests her head on V’s shoulder. Not saying more. Not needing to.
V stares ahead, jaw tight, every nerve on fire.
And she doesn’t move.
Panam’s weight settles against V’s side, slow and full. Her temple nestles just beneath V’s collarbone, her breath warm against the crook of her neck.
For a long time, neither of them says a word.
The storm outside eases—wind softening, like it too has grown tired of the fight. Rain begins to patter on the roof in thin, uncertain drops. The old lamp beside them flickers again, casting their shadows long across the peeling wall.
Panam shifts slightly, then stills. Her arm wraps loosely around V’s waist, half-conscious. Her breath deepens.
And then… it evens out.
She’s asleep.
V stares forward, her mouth parted just enough to pull shallow, quiet breaths. Her entire body is coiled tight, electric. Every inch of her skin that touches Panam’s is alive—searing. The heat of her thigh, her arm, the slight rise and fall of her chest where it meets V’s side.
And underneath all that tension, V feels it. The rush of blood, the throb between her legs—hot, humiliating in its need. The cruel, aching pulse of arousal sparked and now left unresolved.
She clenches her jaw. Her thighs shift subtly, trying not to move enough to wake Panam but needing something. The rough seam of her jeans drags across her skin, doing nothing but reminding her how wet she is.
One of Panam’s fingers twitches against V’s side. A sleepy sound hums in her throat—almost a sigh. V’s hand fists against the fabric of the couch.
Her own breath comes faster. She shuts her eyes tight, as if that’ll help, as if she can think her way out of the way her body feels.
She could move her. She could lay her down gently, get up, find a bathroom, breathe.
But she doesn’t. She can’t.
Instead, she stays perfectly still. Burning. Wanting.
Trapped in the most exquisite hell she’s ever known.