Her voice trembles when she says, “This isn’t how we fix it.”
“I know.” My voice is rough, the words scraping out of me. “But I can’t just stand here and watch him tear you apart.”
“I’m not yours to protect,” she whispers, though her voice wavers like she’s trying to convince herself.
My hand twitches at my side. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Her eyes flash, a mix of fury and want that hits somewhere deep. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make this about us,” she says, breath catching. “When it’s already—” Her voice breaks, and she shakes her head like she’s trying to shake the thought loose. “When it’s already too much.”
I take a step closer. She doesn’t move away.
“I don’t care how much it is,” I say quietly. “I just care about you.”
Her breath stutters. “Leo?—”
She exhales my name like a warning, but it sounds more like surrender. The air between us snaps tight, charged and impossible to ignore.
For a moment, no one moves. No one breathes.
Then her hand brushes mine—accidental, electric—and all the anger, fear, and chaos of the day condenses into that one, single point of contact.
My pulse hammers in my throat. Every instinct tells me to close the space between us, to forget the headlines, the cameras, the noise. Just her. Just us.
She swallows hard. “Don’t.”
But when her eyes meet mine, the word sounds likeplease.
I take one more step.
And the world, for better or worse, tilts toward her.
Chapter 25
Overtime
Sage
The airbetween us feels like it’s humming. Electric. Unforgiving.
Leo’s still standing too close, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with something I can’t name. My name is still on his lips—or maybe it’s my breath on his—because neither of us moves, not really. We justtilt,like gravity’s decided for us.
“Leo,” I whisper, but it comes out too soft to mean stop.
He moves first. Slow, deliberate, like he’s daring me to flinch. His hand finds my waist, firm and sure, and it feels like the world narrows to that single point of contact. My heart stutters once, then kicks into overdrive.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low enough that it’s barely a sound.
I don’t. I can’t.
The distance between us disappears. His mouth finds mine—rough, desperate, and too honest to be safe. The kiss is fire and apology all at once, anger turned inside out. I taste everything we’ve been choking on for days: frustration, fear, want.
My fingers fist in his shirt. His other hand slides to the back of my neck, thumb tracing the edge of my jaw like he’s memorizing something he’s already forgotten once. Every inhale feels like lightning.
This isn’t gentle. It’s defiance. It’s two people trying to rewrite the story they’ve been trapped in. He kisses me like he’s drowning, and I kiss him back like I’ve decided to go under with him.
