She smirked, sharp and knowing. “Perfect. That’s the look I was going for.”
He stepped in, too close now. Close enough to feel the hum between them.
“Menace,” he murmured.
She tilted in close, her mouth barely skimming his jaw. “You say that like I should apologize.”
His hand found her waist again, holding her there like he didn’t want to let go. He didn’t kiss her—just rested his forehead to hers, holding her like letting go might wreck him.
“Don’t make me wish I’d stopped you,” he said, low, gravel-laced.
Her heart kicked, but she didn’t back down.
“You won’t,” she said softly. “But you’ll be thinking about me all night.”
They stood there for one last breath, then she slipped away. The door clicked shut behind her.
And Gideon didn’t move.
In the hallway, Arden let her spine touch the wall, breath catching sharp in her throat.
She wasn’t fragile. Never had been. But letting him in hadn’t felt like surrender. It felt like armor. Like choosing softness and keeping her edge. Like handing someone the weight of your world and knowing, they’d carry it if they had to.
Downstairs, Penny’s voice echoed by the curb.
But all Arden felt was the imprint of Gideon’s touch.
The door shutbehind her with a soft click.
Gideon didn’t move. Not immediately.
Arden’s scent lingered in the air—wild floral, soft and sharp at once. Unexpected. Unruly. Untamed.
The apartment smelled like her.
But beneath it… something else.
Rot.
He scanned the space. Penny’s shoes were near the door, kicked off in a swirl of color. A sweater draped carelessly over the couch. Her presence was loud, unmissable.
But beneath the chaos, it was still felt like Arden’s place too. Clean. Minimal. Intentional.
His gaze drifted left.
The roses.
Dozens of them, wilting in silence. Petals dried and curling like old wounds. Crimson blooms scattered across the floor.
It wasn’t one or two.
It wasn’t love. It was a graveyard.
The mood of moments ago—the heat, the laughter—bled right out of the air.
Gideon stepped forward, jaw tight, the stillness in his body coiled and dangerous.
He crouched and picked up one of the roses from the floor. The thorns, like warnings, had been clipped. The stem clean. Too clean. The petals still perfect.
