Colson

Borrowed Time

Colson POV

Planning came easier once I stopped pretending I had control.

That was the lie I’d lived on for a very long time—the idea that if I planned hard enough, schemed long enough, sharpened my instincts to a razor’s edge, then nothing could surprise me. That the world would stay neatly within the lines I drew for it.

It never did.

I stood near the window of Amaris’s house, arms folded loosely as I watched the street beyond her wards. It looked painfully ordinary. A dim lantern flickered on the corner. Somewhere down the block, someone laughed—human, carefree, oblivious. No one knew the world was balanced on a knife’s edge. No one ever did until it was too late.

The watch on my person was quiet for now.

That didn’t mean I’d forgotten about it.

Every second I spent here was borrowed. Every breath, every word, every look. I could feel it in my bones—the pressure of time stretching thin, like a thread pulled too tight. Eventually it would snap, and when it did, I’d be yanked back to the future whether I was ready or not.

Which meant one thing.

I wasn’t going to spend every stolen moment drowning in dread.

That had never been my style.

I turned back toward Amaris. She was seated at the table, surrounded by neatly organized chaos—herbs laid out to dry, parchment stacked in precise piles, ink already uncapped like she might need it at any moment. Calm. Focused. Controlled.

Hell, she was dangerous.

Not because of her magic—though that alone could level cities—but because she didn’t panic. She assessed. She adapted. She endured.

And this version of her didn’t even know yet how much she would mean to me.

Past Amaris.

Still Amaris.

And if I was being honest with myself—and I usually wasn’t—seeing her like this hurt more than any blade ever had.

I cleared my throat, partly to break the silence and partly to keep myself from staring too long.

“So,” I said lightly, “before I go running off to steal ancient, world-ending artifacts and piss off every unhinged power broker in existence…”

She didn’t look up. “You’re about to suggest something foolish.”

“I prefer therapeutic.”

That earned me a glance. One brow lifted, unimpressed but curious. “Colson.”

“I’m serious,” I said, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “Look, I know my time is limited. I know the stakes are catastrophic. But it’s also not suspicious for me to disappear for a night.”

Her pen paused.

“Ezra expects it,” I continued. “Kendrick wouldn’t question it. No one bats an eye when a vampire indulges. It’s practically tradition.”

She leaned back slightly, studying me now. “And you want to indulge.”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Tastefully. Responsibly. Possibly with alcohol.”

Her lips pressed together. “You’re impossible.”

“True,” I agreed. “But I’m also very effective when my morale isn’t in the gutter.”

She sighed, setting the pen aside. “What exactly are you proposing?”

I smiled—the easy, crooked one that had gotten me out of more trouble than it had any right to.

“Drinks,” I said. “Something strong. Something not served in a cracked glass next to a threat of violence. Maybe a laugh or two. And if the universe allows it…”

I shrugged. “We forget, just for a little while.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re asking for permission.”

“I’m asking for company,” I corrected gently.

Silence stretched between us.

Not tense. Not hostile.

Heavy.

Finally, she spoke. “You don’t have long.”

“I know.”

“And you understand why I wouldn’t have used that magic unless there was no other option.”

I stepped closer, my tone losing its edge. “I do. More than you think.”

That was true. I’d seen what it cost her in the future. The exhaustion. The way her magic never quite felt the same afterward. She hadn’t told me outright, but I wasn’t blind.

She searched my face for a long moment, then exhaled.

“One drink,” she said. “Maybe two. You get a short window to relax.”

I grinned immediately. “I accept these terms with enthusiasm.”

She shook her head, muttering something under her breath as she moved to a small cabinet built into the wall. It wasn’t flashy—just practical wood and old craftsmanship—but everything in it was meticulously arranged.

“You are unbearable,” she said as she reached for a bottle.

“You love it,” I replied automatically—then froze.

So did she.

Slowly, she turned to face me, one hand still on the bottle, eyes sharp but curious. “I do?”

I coughed, then decided lying would only make it worse. “Future you does. Very much. Excellent judgment, really.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “You say things like that very casually.”

“I’ve had practice.”

She poured two glasses and handed one to me. Our fingers brushed—just briefly—but that familiar warmth sparked instantly, sending a shiver up my spine. I clenched my jaw and forced myself not to react like a lovesick i***t.

We sat.

The first sip burned pleasantly, grounding me in the moment. It wasn’t the best liquor I’d ever had, but it was real, and it was shared.

“Not bad,” I said.

“High praise from someone who drinks poison recreationally,” she replied.

We talked at first about nothing important. The absurdity of Ezra’s fashion choices. Kendrick’s ego. The city’s uncanny ability to rot no matter how many times someone tried to clean it up.

I told her a story about a vampire lord who’d tried to conquer three territories with nothing but intimidation and a terrible sense of direction. She laughed—actually laughed—and the sound hit me harder than it should have.

The watch stayed quiet.

That fact alone felt like a gift.

I leaned back in my chair, glass dangling loosely from my fingers, watching her as she relaxed into the moment. The tension didn’t disappear entirely—it never did—but it softened.

“You know,” I said casually, “this is technically still research.”

Her eyes flicked to me. “Explain.”

“I’m learning how past-you thinks,” I said. “Critical information. Vital to the mission.”

She snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yet you’re still here.”

“That’s debatable.”

Another sip. Another laugh.

For a while, the world stayed exactly where it was.

Eventually, the conversation slowed, settling into something quieter. Comfortable. Charged in a way neither of us acknowledged out loud.

I studied her—this version of Amaris, untouched by the years of loss she hadn’t lived yet. Strong. Curious. Careful. Still carrying the weight of responsibility, but not yet crushed by it.

“If things were different,” I said softly, “I’d probably still find a way to ruin your evening.”

She met my gaze, unflinching. “I don’t doubt that.”

The moment stretched—unspoken possibilities threading through the air between us. I could feel the pull, the temptation to cross lines that time itself had drawn.

I smiled, this one slower, more deliberate. “Borrowed time,” I murmured.

She raised her glass. “Borrowed time.”

We clinked them together.

The night softened around us without either of us noticing when it happened.

One moment we were still talking—trading dry remarks about the city, about Ezra’s ego, about how Kendrick’s idea of subtlety involved dim lighting and intimidation—and the next, the space between us felt… different. Smaller. Warmer.

Amaris laughed at something I said, shaking her head, and I realized I’d been watching her mouth instead of listening to the punchline.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, catching me.

“Like what?” I asked innocently.

“Like you’re deciding whether I’m a bad idea.”

I lifted my glass, considering. “Oh, that decision was made a long time ago.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And?”

“And I chose you anyway.”

She snorted, but there was a flush at her cheeks that had nothing to do with the drink. “You’re impossible.”

“So you keep telling me,” I said. “And yet—here we are.”

She leaned back in her chair, studying me the way a strategist studies a battlefield—measuring risk, reward, collateral damage. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I enjoy most things too much,” I replied. “It’s part of my charm.”

“Your arrogance,” she corrected.

“Same thing.”

She reached across the table to refill her glass, and when she did, her sleeve brushed my wrist. It was nothing—barely a touch—but it sent that familiar warmth spiraling through me again. The kind that made my control itch.

I cleared my throat. “You know,” I said lightly, “future you pretends she doesn’t like when I flirt.”

Her brow arched. “Pretends?”

“Oh, she likes it,” I assured her. “She just likes pretending she doesn’t.”

Amaris shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I can’t imagine I tolerate you.”

“That’s the magic,” I said. “You don’t. You endure me.”

She laughed again—softer this time—and for a moment, the sound filled the room, pushing the weight of prophecy and doom just a little farther away.

We moved closer without acknowledging it. Chairs scraped. Knees brushed. My arm draped over the back of her chair like it belonged there.

“This is reckless,” she said quietly.

“Extremely,” I agreed. “But tonight? Necessary.”

She hesitated—just long enough for me to feel it—then exhaled, as if letting go of something she’d been holding too tightly.

“All right,” she said. “One night.”

I leaned in, lowering my voice. “I’ll take it.”

The air between us tightened—charged, expectant. I reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair back from her face, my touch careful, asking without words.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly, eyes never leaving mine. “Colson.”

“Mm?”

“If you knock anything over—”

I grinned. “No promises.”

And then I did it.

With a swift, unapologetic sweep of my arm, I cleared the table—parchment, herbs, glasses—everything tumbling harmlessly to the floor in a clatter that echoed through the room.

Her breath caught. “Colson—”

I stood, closed the distance in one step, and lifted her easily, setting her atop the cleared table like it was always meant for this moment.

Her hands found my shoulders automatically.

“Relax,” I murmured, a wicked, familiar smile tugging at my mouth. “Borrowed time.”

She met my grin—bright, dangerous, very much Amaris.

“Borrowed time,” she echoed.