I roll my eyes.
Damn him for always knowing when to ease up, when to give me room to breathe.
And thank you.
ME
Oh, how magnanimous you. BTW Otis has a message for ya
CHANCE
Fixing this first. I’ll buy Otis a drink if I survive. Ten minutes. Back entrance.
ME
And if I don’t show?
CHANCE
You will.
ME
Awfully confident for someone who just got wrecked by dishware.
CHANCE
Some things are worth the hit.
His words dig deeper than I want to admit. My throat tightens as I set the phone down, my hands trembling slightly.
Maybe they are.
I stare at his text until the words blur, debating for the hundredth time whether I should go down there. My fingers linger over the phone's screen, reading through—scrolling up—starting again.
The bowl incident still stings, a raw wound under my carefully crafted armor. But those texts... they cracked something open.
There’s always been an us, Squirt.
That hits different.
Fuck it.
The back entrance is quiet, with nothing but the distant thump of bass from the bar and the soft whisper of snow in the air.
I find him straddling a snowmobile, his hands resting lightly on the handlebars, the thrum of the idling engine filling the cold, quiet night. The machine vibrates beneath him, sleek and powerful, and all I can think is that’s not playing fair.
The moonlight catches on the shadow of stubble along his sharp jawline. My fingers itch to trace the line the way I did as he slept.
Damn him.
Definitelynotplaying fair.
The snow crunches under my boots as I approach, slow and deliberate, because I’ll be damned if he knows the effect this is having on me.
He tilts his head, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that feels like a full-body check.
“You came,” he says, his voice rough, carrying a weight that lands heavily between us.
