The kiss on the fire escape had changed the space between them. In the two days since, the quiet in their small apartment was no longer empty but filled with a humming tension, a shared awareness that thrummed just beneath the surface of every mundane task. The memory of his mouth, the solid pressure of his body against hers, was a constant, low-burning ember inside her. Now, moving through the skeletal remains of the city, that awareness was a sixth sense, sharp and electric.

They moved like ghosts through the canyons of shattered glass and rusted steel, their footsteps soft on the debris-strewn pavement. It was a deadly dance they knew by heart, a choreography of survival drilled into them by a life that no longer existed. Four would signal with a flick of his wrist, and she would flatten herself into the shadows of a burned-out bus. She’d spot a flicker of movement in a high window, and a hand on his arm was all it took for him to freeze, his body becoming part of the urban decay around them. They were a single, fluid unit, their shared Dauntless training a silent language between them.

Their target was a small, independent pharmacy, rumored to have been overlooked in the initial waves of looting. But the direct route was blocked by a collapsed overpass, forcing them into the guts of a derelict office building. Inside, the air was stale with the smell of mold and forgotten paper. Sunlight struggled through grime-caked windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the dead air. The main stairwell was a mangled wreck of twisted rebar and fractured concrete.

“Up there,” Four said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to be absorbed by the oppressive silence. He pointed to a mezzanine ledge about ten feet up. “We can cross over to the east stairwell from there.”

She followed his gaze. The ledge was intact, but there was no way to climb it. “How?”

He didn’t answer with words. He turned to her, his dark eyes meeting hers, and in them, she saw not a question, but a statement of fact. A silent understanding passed between them. She gave a short, sharp nod.

He positioned himself below the ledge, planting his feet in a wide, stable stance. “Ready?”

She nodded again, her heart starting a heavy, rhythmic thud against her ribs. He reached for her, and the world seemed to narrow to the imminent contact. His hands, large and calloused, settled on her waist. It was a firm, practical grip, meant for leverage and nothing more, but the moment his palms made contact with the thin fabric of her shirt, a jolt of pure heat shot through her. It was so intense it almost made her gasp. His thumbs rested just below her ribs, his fingers wrapping around to the small of her back, spanning her middle completely. The touch was professional, yet it felt impossibly personal, proprietary. A tremor went through her, a full-body shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the building. She felt the hard muscle of his abdomen press against her hip as he adjusted his grip, and a deep, coiling warmth spread through her belly.

“On three,” he murmured, his voice close, his breath ghosting across her cheek. “One… two…”

On three, he lifted. There was no strain, just a fluid explosion of power. She felt the coiled strength in his arms and shoulders as he hoisted her upward as if she weighed nothing at all. For a dizzying second, her face was level with his, his gaze locked on hers, intense and unwavering. Then she was rising, her hands finding a firm purchase on the dusty edge of the ledge. She scrambled up, her knees finding solid concrete beneath them. She turned immediately, looking down at him. He was already moving, his hands gripping the very edge she’d just cleared. She watched, mesmerized, as the muscles in his back and arms bunched and flexed, pulling his own weight up with an animal grace that stole the air from her lungs. He swung one leg over and was beside her in an instant, the entire sequence taking less than ten seconds.

He stood, brushing the dust from his hands, his expression already scanning their new surroundings for threats. But she couldn’t move. The phantom heat of his palms lingered on her skin, a tangible brand on her waist, and a new, profound awareness of his strength settled deep within her bones.

They made it across the mezzanine and navigated the treacherous east stairwell, the silence of the building pressing in on them. The pharmacy proved to be a bust, its shelves picked clean, the floor littered with empty blister packs and shattered glass vials. Disappointment soured the air between them. It was on the way back, taking a different, longer route through the skeletal grid of the city, that Four pointed toward the grand, columned facade of the central library.

“Medical encyclopedias,” he said, his voice low. “Reference section. Worth a look.”

She nodded. The building was a mausoleum of knowledge, its tall windows like vacant eyes staring out at the ruined city. Inside, the silence was different from the office building’s—it was reverent. Dust motes danced in beams of pale light slanting down from the high arched windows, illuminating endless aisles of books. The air smelled of decaying paper and time itself. They moved through the labyrinth of shelves, their footsteps echoing softly in the vast, empty space.

They were in the non-fiction stacks, the Dewey Decimal numbers peeling from the spines of leather-bound volumes, when a floorboard creaked in the aisle ahead. It wasn’t them.

Four stopped instantly, his body going rigid. Tris froze beside him, her hand instinctively hovering over the hilt of the knife at her belt. Three figures emerged from the end of the aisle, blocking their path. They were thin, their clothes ragged, their faces etched with the familiar desperation of hunger and fear. The one in the lead, a wiry man with frantic, darting eyes, held a sharpened length of rebar like a spear.

“This is our place,” the man rasped, his voice cracking. “Whatever you’re looking for, it’s ours. Turn around.”

Before Tris could even process the threat, before her training could fully kick in, Four moved. It wasn’t a lunge or a defensive crouch. He simply took one deliberate step sideways, placing his body entirely in front of hers. He became a wall. A shield of muscle and bone between her and the world. The move was so fluid, so instantaneous and instinctual, it felt less like a choice and more like a law of nature.

Her view was suddenly eclipsed by the broad expanse of his back, the dark fabric of his shirt stretched taut over his shoulders. She could feel the heat radiating from him, a tangible wave of warmth that pushed back the cavernous chill of the library. Her fingers twitched, wanting to reach out, to press her palm against the solid plane of his back.

“We’re not looking for trouble,” Four said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it filled the space, calm and absolute. It held none of the brash, challenging tone of a Dauntless enforcer. This was something else entirely. It was the quiet, unshakeable authority of a predator who saw no threat, only an obstacle. “We’ll be on our way.”

“You’ll leave what you’ve got,” the man with the rebar insisted, taking a hesitant step forward.

Four didn’t move a muscle, save for the slight tilt of his head. “No,” he said. The word was flat. Final. It wasn’t a negotiation; it was a statement of fact. A promise of what would happen if they pushed.

Tris watched, mesmerized, from behind the fortress of his body. This wasn’t Four, the quiet man who shared silent breakfasts with her. This wasn’t even Four, the Dauntless instructor. This was something older, more primal. It was a raw, possessive force, a quiet menace aimed not at dominance, but at pure, undiluted protection. Of her. The realization struck her with the force of a physical blow, a hot, liquid certainty that pooled low in her belly. The kiss on the fire escape had been a question. This was the answer. His commitment to her wasn't a decision made in the quiet of their apartment; it was an instinct embedded in his very soul. He would stand between her and the end of the world without a second thought.

A tremor, sharp and thrilling, traced its way down her spine. It was a feeling so intense, so deeply proprietary, it almost stole her breath. Under the man’s aggressive posturing, Four remained utterly still, an immovable object radiating a lethal calm. The wiry leader and his companions hesitated, their bravado crumbling under the weight of that silent certainty. They exchanged nervous glances, their desperation warring with the instinct for self-preservation that Four’s stance screamed at them. Finally, with a muttered curse, the man lowered his rebar. They shuffled backward, melting back into the shadows of the stacks.

Only when they were gone did Four turn. His shoulders relaxed, but the intensity lingered in his dark eyes as they found hers. He scanned her face, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, before he gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. “Let’s go.”

She followed him out of the library, her heart hammering a fierce, unsteady rhythm against her ribs. The air outside was cold, but she felt flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the sun.

The antiseptic stung, a sharp, clean pain that was a welcome distraction from the thrumming in his veins. He watched her, the way her brow was furrowed in concentration, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Her fingers, usually so capable of dismantling a weapon or scaling a wall, were now impossibly delicate as she worked the cloth over the torn skin of his forearm. The apartment was silent save for the soft, wet sound of her ministration and the ragged edge of their breathing.

He hadn't realized how much he was holding back until this very moment, sitting on the edge of their mattress while she knelt before him. Out there, in the dust and decay of the library, he had been a shield, a wall of quiet authority. Here, she was his anchor, her focused care pulling the tension from his shoulders, muscle by muscle. He watched the lamplight catch the fine hairs on her cheek, the earnest set of her jaw. This quiet strength in her was just as potent as the fire she showed their enemies. More so, because this was just for him.

His good hand came up, his fingers covering hers where they rested on his arm, stilling her movement. Tris looked up, her gray eyes wide and questioning, the cotton swab held suspended over his wound. The air, already thick, became charged, heavy with everything they hadn't said. The fear, the relief, the raw, possessive urge he’d felt when that man had looked at her.

"Tris," he breathed, his voice rougher than he intended.

He didn't need to say more. He leaned down, and she met him halfway, her lips parting for his. The kiss was slow at first, a gentle press that tasted of antiseptic and relief. It was a question and an answer all at once. Then, his thumb stroked the pulse point at her wrist, and a shudder went through her, her mouth softening under his. He deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before sweeping inside, seeking hers. She tasted like home, a concept he was only just beginning to understand.

A soft sound escaped her throat, a mix of a sigh and a moan, as her free hand came up to cup the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the short hairs there. He shifted, pulling her up from the floor and settling her onto his lap without breaking the kiss. She straddled his thigh, her slight weight a perfect, searing pressure. He felt himself harden instantly, his cock straining against the rough denim of his jeans, a visceral response to having her so close, so pliant against him.

She broke the kiss, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her breath mingling with his. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. He could feel the heat of her through her clothes, could imagine the wetness gathering between her legs. He slid his hand from her wrist down the curve of her spine, settling on the swell of her ass and squeezing gently, pulling her tighter against his erection. She gasped, a soft, sharp sound, and rocked her hips forward in a small, instinctive movement that sent a bolt of pure fire through his veins.

"Stay," he murmured against her lips, the word a command, a plea. He didn't just mean for the night. He meant here, with him. Always.

Her answer was another kiss, this one harder, more demanding, her fingers tightening their grip in his hair. The half-cleaned gash on his arm was forgotten, a minor hurt in the face of a much larger, more urgent ache that only she could soothe.