SUB ROSA | Wind Breaker

Arc 5 || 11. Let's Pretend We're Bulletproof

The sun hadn't yet broken through the blinds—just a faint, sleepy glow cast across the edge of the windowsill. The city outside remained hushed, breath caught between darkness and dawn. It was the quiet that only came just before morning, when the world still allowed lovers to pretend that time had stopped.

Akame stirred first.

She didn't open her eyes right away—she didn't need to. She could feel him. The warmth pressed along every inch of her body, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, the way one of his arms cradled her from beneath while the other lay across her hip, fingers resting just above the curve of her bone. The weight of it was familiar now, comforting. Possessive in a way that didn't cage her—but claimed her.

His hand hadn't moved much. His thumb, even in sleep, still brushed soft, lazy circles into her skin. The same place he'd worshipped last night, the same path he had memorized until she forgot everything but his name.

A shiver fluttered up her spine.

She nuzzled closer without thinking, burying her face into the warmth of his chest. The bare skin there still smelled like sleep and skin and the faintest trace of her perfume—still clinging to him like she belonged there.

She sighed against him, quietly. Almost dreamlike.

Her leg was draped over his, tangled at the thigh, and she could feel the shape of his knee pressed behind hers, the heat of his body curled around every part of her like he'd meant to hold her like this all night. Her arm rested across his waist, but now it moved, slowly—tracing the line of his torso, then upward, fingertips brushing her lips.

Her lips were still tender.

Still marked by him.

And the thought sent another flush blooming across her cheeks, hotter this time, the memory of what they'd done—what they'd become—pressing in like a second heartbeat.

She couldn't help it.

She lifted her head slightly.

Her gaze fell on him, still sleeping. His brows were soft, lashes long against the curve of his cheek, his mouth slack in the most unguarded way. His hair was tousled, strands falling into his eyes, and the marks she left on his collarbone peeked out from the crumpled sheets. He looked impossibly young. And impossibly hers.

She pushed herself up just a little more, careful not to wake him—

But the moment she moved, his arm tightened.

Firm. Instinctive.

He pulled her back into him with a suddenness that stole her breath, her body dragged against his, thigh to thigh, chest to chest.

Akame gasped, eyes wide.

His brows furrowed at the movement, and he opened one eye in a sleepy glare, breath low and caught somewhere between annoyance and need.

And then his gaze landed on her.

Her lips—swollen, parted.

Her eyes—wide, blue, still dazed from dreams and memory.

Her skin—kissed red where he had held her too tightly last night.

He inhaled sharply.

Then scowled again—but it was a poor disguise. His cheeks tinged faintly pink.

"Go back to sleep," he mumbled, his voice low and husky, rough with sleep and desire.

Akame flushed deeper, all the bravado from the night before slipping away. There was no vixen now, no teasing pout. Just her, pink and bare and curled into the boy who had seen every version of her.