“It’s more than that,” I say. “You’re not a file I can close when we catch him. You’re…Tallulah.”
The word hangs there, bigger than it should be.
Her eyes find mine again. Hold.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” she asks, voice very soft.
“Yeah,” I say. “It means if Henry wants to keep running his mouth at you, he has to go through me.”
We stare at each other. The movie drones on in the background, some nonsense about a snowball fight turning into a declaration of love.
Her hand, under the blanket, inches toward the edge of the cushion. Hesitates.
Then, instead of stopping, she shifts.
Slowly, Twiggy uncurls from her end of the couch and slides across the cushions, blanket dragging with her. It’s not graceful. It’s determined. One knee nudges my thigh, then the other, until she’s wedged in the space between my chair and the sofa, half-kneeling, half perched on the arm, close enough that I can see the faint scatter of freckles across her nose.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
I should say something flippant. Something that puts space back between us.
I don’t.
My hand finds her waist instead, fingers sinking into soft cotton and softer skin beneath it, steadying her. She sways closer, like gravity’s got opinions, and before my brain can veto the move, she leans in that last inch.
Her mouth brushes mine.
It’s light, at first. Barely there. But it’s not an accident.
Every muscle in my body goes tight.
I could pull back. I should.
Instead, I catch her with my other hand at the back of her neck and claim her mouth properly.
She makes a quiet sound against my mouth—surprised, breathy—and then she’s clutching at my shirt, cold fingers fisting in the fabric as she leans into me. The blanket slips; I feel the press of her ribs, the sharp little jut of her hip as she ends up half in my lap, knee braced against the outside of my thigh.
The contact isn’t simple anymore.
It’s heat and static and the taste of sugar from whatever cocoa Cotton forced on her earlier. It’s the thud of her pulse against my thumb where it rests just under her jaw. It’s the way she tilts her head like she’s trying to figure out how to get closer when we’re already chest to chest.
I breathe her in and let myself have it—for one long, reckless stretch of heartbeats.
Then every promise I’ve made to other people slams back into place.
Kael. Brodie.Stay away from the cousin. Don’t touch the asset. Don’t make this harder than it already is.
I tear my mouth from hers, but I don’t shove her back. I just press my forehead to hers, eyes shut, breathing hard and ragged like I’ve run five miles.
“Tink,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I like. “We shouldn’t—we can’t—”
“I know,” she whispers, which is a lie, because her hands are still twisted in my shirt and she’s still in my lap, and every line in my body is screaming that this is exactly what we need to be doing.
It’s what we were made for.
We sit like that for three breaths. Four. My thumb keeps drawing slow, betraying circles against the small of her back, like I haven’t gotten the memo.
Then she eases away, inch by inch. My hands fall back to my own knees like someone cut the strings.
