He hums.
“Maybe I should. But where’s the fun in that?”
His thumb presses a little firmer, tracing over the seam. It’s nothing and everything all at once—the kind of touch that makes breathing an effort.
We pass a row of palm trees swaying in the early light, and I glance at him—the cap turned backward, his jaw shadowed, his lips curved just enough to make my stomach flip.
He looks too good.
Too tempting.
TooTrey.
“Relax,” he says quietly, his voice losing the teasing edge for a heartbeat. “We’ll get you squared away, fill you up with yummy drugs, like the pill, then grab some coffee and a bagel, yeah? No big deal. I’ve got you.”
It’s the softness that undoes me—the way his tone dips like he means it.
The chemist sits on a quiet corner of Melrose, the glass front glittering in the morning light. From the moment Trey pulls into the parking lot, I can feel eyes turning our way—a few people pausing mid-step, double-taking, whispering.
Trey just grins. “Guess it’s too early for subtle.”
He slides out of the truck, moves around to open my door before I can even reach for the handle. The movement is casual, but the way he looks at me isn’t— it’s sharp, like he’s staking a claim before we even hit the sidewalk.
As soon as we step out, someone gasps his name. A phone lifts. Then another. He doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, he slips his arm around my waist and tugs me against him, palm settling at the small of my back.
“Smile, Dove,” he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear. “They’re watching.”
I glance up. He dips his head, brushing his mouth over mine in a kiss that’s all heat, the kind that saysminewithout words. My breath catches. The world narrows to the taste of him and the sound of his name being called from somewhere close.
By the time he pulls back, his grin is wicked.
“Well,” he says, voice rough, “guess the news just got their morning headline.”
My cheeks burn, but his hand stays firm on my waist as we head inside. A few people follow with phones out, whispering, but Trey doesn’t care—he walks like the world belongs to him.
At the counter, he keeps his tone light, charming, teasing the clerk into laughter as he pays for the small paper bag. When he turns back to me, there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes.
“Handled,” he says, waving the receipt. “Now coffee before anyone decides to ask for autographs?”
I can’t help it—I laugh, shaking my head.
“You’re kind of incredible, Trey.”
He leans down, brushing his lips against my temple.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice soft enough to make something inside me melt. “Just know…I’m buttering you up, so you let me in through the backdoor.”
He winks, and my brain short-circuits. My cheeks heat, my pulse spikes, and a shiver runs down my spine as I try—and fail—to process what he just said.
Trey threads his fingers through mine as we leave the chemist, sunlight spilling across the street. L.A. is already awake—carhorns, laughter, the distant hiss of espresso machines from the cafés lining the block.
“Come on, Dove,” he says, tugging gently. “Coffee calls.”
We walk hand in hand, his thumb brushing slow circles against my skin. People glance our way. Trey doesn’t seem to notice or care. He’s humming under his breath, relaxed, easy, like the world’s noise can’t touch him.
We stop outside a small coffee shop with wide windows and a chalkboard sign that readsSun & Grind. The smell hits me first—roasted beans, butter, something sweet baking in the back.
