Kat pushed the door open with her shoulder, thermos in one hand, laptop in the other. She'd barely slept—her mind had been a wreck all night—and the only thing that was going to keep her functional was caffeine and getting her hands on a keyboard.
But when she stepped into the computer room, her stride faltered.
V was already there.
He sat in the main chair, leather stretched over his broad frame, a cigarette burning low between his gloved fingers. The glow of the monitors lit his face in cold, blue light, sharp angles cut even harsher. His eyes flicked up once when she entered, then slid right back to the screens as though she were nothing but air.
Her chest tightened. For a second, she almost turned and walked right back out. Instead, she set her laptop down harder than necessary and dropped into a chair opposite him. If he wanted to play the silent treatment game, fine—she'd match him move for move.
Except her skin still prickled with the memory of last night, of his body pressed to hers as the world had warped around them. The sudden closeness, the way her stomach had dropped into her knees, the breath-stealing, impossible reality of it all.
She hated that she remembered.
Hated more that he clearly didn't give a shit.
The door creaked again, and Phury strolled in, golden hair loose, eyes tired but alert. He sniffed once, then wrinkled his nose.
"Jesus, V." He waved a hand in front of his face. "You reek of sex."
Kat froze. Her breath caught sharp in her throat before she could stop it. She snapped her gaze to V in disbelief, stomach lurching as heat shot across her cheeks.
V didn't move for a long moment—except for the way his jaw flexed. Then he leaned back, exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, and drawled without so much as a glance in her direction, "Not all of us can be celibate, true?"
Phury rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath about crude bastards, but Kat barely heard him.
The sound of V's voice, casual and cutting, landed like a slap. Her throat burned, and suddenly the room was too small, too hot.
Kat's hands gripped the edge of the chair for a heartbeat, knuckles white. Her chest was tight, throat raw from the sharp intake of breath she hadn't been able to suppress.
Without a word, she pushed back from the table. Her chair scraped harshly against the floor, echoing through the room, and she pivoted toward the door, head down, jaw tight.
V didn't move. Phury didn't say anything else. The only sound was the soft hum of the monitors and her own boots striking the floor as she strode down the hall.
Each step carried a tension that burned hotter than any words could express. Her stomach churned with frustration, embarrassment, and something she refused to name.
She reached her room, yanked the door open, and practically threw herself inside. The second the door was between her and the hallway, she slammed it with all the force she could muster.
The frame rattled. The latch groaned. Her shoulders pressed into the wood, chest heaving, every nerve screaming.
Alone, finally, she let herself sink to the floor, back against the door. Her laptop and thermos sat untouched beside her, forgotten.
Her hands covered her face, fingers digging into her hair. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She could still feel him—V's body, the heat, the weight of him.
Her jaw clenched so hard she feared she might crack a tooth. Anger, frustration, and something far more confusing twisted together in her chest.
She refused to think about it. Refused to admit that the memory of him so close, so impossibly near, had rattled her in ways she didn't like—or understand.
So she sat there. Silent. Breathing fast. Seething. Alone with the door between her and him, the door she'd slammed hard enough to make a statement.
And she let it scream for her.
