For the first time all night, the power feels like it sits in my hands and not in some boardroom miles away. I curl my fingers around his wrist where his pulse thuds steady under skin—and let myself believe him.
My fingers are still around his wrist when the world sticks its nose against the glass. A buzz rattles the window frame—my phone face-down on the sill, lighting the room with a predatory glow. Unknown number. The outlet’s name scrolls across the notification like a taunt. The sound vibrates through my bones, a tuning fork for dread.
Jason’s head turns. Mine too. As if on cue, metal scrapes outside—the thin whine of the fire escape taking a cautious footstep. I freeze so hard my teeth click. “They’re here,” I whisper, uselessly, like the dark needs the intel.
Every muscle in him goes alert, not the kind that bolts—coiled, assessing. He stands, a single smooth rise, and positionshimself between me and the window, bigger than the room, more solid than the floor. For a stupid, grateful second I hide in his shadow.
“Stay with me,” he says, quiet, the command stripped of ego, soft enough to feel like a promise. He crosses to the lamp and flicks it off; rain-silvered streetlight washes the room in grayscale. The phone buzzes again, insistently. The notification previews line up like bullets: CONFIRM? COMMENT? GOING LIVE IN TEN.
Panic is a fast thing. It sprints up my spine and looks for all the exits at once—job, reputation, clinic appointment I haven’t made. I swallow and taste metal. “This is how it starts,” I say, barely moving my mouth. “They keep pushing until we make a mistake and then that’s all anyone sees.”
He turns back to me, outlines cut in soft shadow. “We don’t owe them a single second we don’t choose,” he says. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
I wait for the part where he reaches for his phone, where he strategizes, where he steps away to manage optics while I manage my fear. Instead he comes back to me, slow and deliberate, like we have all the time the city wants to steal.
“Riley,” he says, and my name in his voice feels like a lifeline tossed from a boat I didn’t think would circle back. He lifts his hands—not to soothe me into silence, not to turn me toward the safest angle—but to cradle my hips again. He rests his forehead against mine for one breath, then lowers his hands, splayed and warm, to my belly with the care of a man putting down something breakable and beloved.
Everything inside me wants to fold.
“They can pry at the door,” he says, voice steady enough to slow my pulse. “They can text until their thumbs fall off. They don’t get this.” His thumbs press lightly, a vow written in touch. “This is ours.”
I brace for distance that doesn’t come. I brace for retreat that never arrives. The adrenaline shakes still skitter through my muscles, but the pattern changes—fright rewired into relief so intense it makes my knees watery. I catch his shoulder and breathe him in—clean soap, wet cotton, the rink’s mineral chill ghosting his hoodie. The smell of the life that’s been both my ache and my medicine.
“Tell me what you need in the next five minutes,” he says. “That’s the whole plan. Five minutes at a time.”
The request is small enough to hold. “Close the curtains,” I say. “Turn off my phone. And—” I have to inhale around the last word. “Stay.”
“Done,” he says simply. He moves efficient as warmup: curtains drawn in two sweeps, phone silenced with a thumb and slid into his pocket, not to control but to keep the noise away from me. When he returns, he doesn’t pace the perimeter like a caged thing. He comes back to center. To me.
“Still here,” he says, hands finding my waist again, grounding me to the floor and to the choice in front of us.“So are you,” I replied, my tone laced with sarcasm. “Thought you’d be out celebrating another win.”
He pushed off the doorframe, closing the distance between us in a few long strides. His presence was overwhelming, his scent—a mix of sweat, cologne, and something uniquely him—invading my senses. “Not in the mood,” he muttered, his eyes scanning my face as if searching for something.
Outside, a footstep creaks closer on metal. Inside, my heart stops trying to escape my ribs and starts keeping time with his.
He doesn’t back away. He steps closer, slow like he’s approaching a wild thing he refuses to corner. His palms spread low over my stomach again, warmer now that the room is dim and the rain-sound has softened to a hush. The contact is light—reverent, claiming nothing and promising everything.Something unknots behind my ribs so fast I sound like I’ve been punched.
“Stay,” I say again, quieter. The word isn’t a test anymore. It’s a choice.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He glances toward the window only long enough to confirm the curtains hold, then brings his attention back like he’s re-drawing the perimeter around us. “We do this on your timeline. Ours. Tomorrow we call doctors and lawyers. Tonight you breathe.”
I try. Inhale four, hold two, exhale six. It works better when his hands are on me. The ridiculousness of that isn’t lost on me—years of training certifications and it’s his pulse under my fingertips that regulates mine.
He tips his forehead to mine, noses brushing, breath mingling. The kiss isn’t a question this time, but it’s still careful, like he’s learned the notes and refuses to play them too loud. Heat licks low and bright, danger wrapped in comfort, the axis of us tilting toward gravity I’ve pretended not to feel.
For a moment, the air between us crackles with tension. Jason’s gaze drops to my lips, and I felt a flush creep up my neck. I know I should step back, maintain the professional distance I’d worked so hard to uphold. But something in his eyes—a raw, unguarded hunger—makes me stay.
His hand shoots out, his fingers brushes my jawline, sending a shiver down my spine. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, his voice a rough edge of desire. I swallowed hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. “You,” I replied, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. “Now.”
His grip tightens on my hip, pulling me flush against him. I feel the hard line of his body through his jeans, and a desperate ache throbbed between my legs. His mouth crashed down on mine, demanding and relentless. Tongues tangle, teeth nip, and I taste the salt of his skin, the heat of his need. His hands roam,cupping my ass, lifting me until I was pressed against him, my core grinding against his thickness.
“Fuck,” he groans, breaking the kiss. “You’re killing me, Riley.”
“Then do something about it,” I challenge, my breath coming in short gasps.
He didn’t hesitate. His hands slide down, gripping the hem of my shirt. I lift my arms, and he pulls it over my head, tossing it aside. His gaze raking over my bare skin, lingering on my perky breasts, the nipples tight with need. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning in to take one peak into his mouth. His tongue swirls, his teeth graze, and I arched into him, my head falling back.
“Jason,” I whimper, my hands tangling in his hair. “Please.”
