I stilled, and he waited—watching me, waiting for flinch or recoil. As if he’d seen it before. As if he expected it.
But I didn’t flinch.
“Okay,” I said.
He blinked. “That’s it?”
“I’m not judging you.”
“Before you think I was wrongly accused, or I’m some saint, just know I did it.” He said it without hesitation. “I regret it every day. It wasn’t deliberate; I wish it hadn’t happened, but it is what it is now. No one else would’ve given me a second chance. Tudor did. Logan does. Jamie and Enzo are brothers, and as for Robbie, he loves it here. And now, weirdly, you’re sitting here eating a sandwich in our kitchen, and I don’t quite know what to do with that.”
We kept eating in companionable silence for a moment, the only sounds the rustle of chip bags and the occasional sip from a can. The food settled warm in my stomach, and the silence hanging between us wasn’t awkward—it was something real, and I found myself exhaling tension.
Rio had that effect on me—grounding, not because he said the right things, but because therewas no pretense or expectations. He was a big wall of man with an inexplicable need to feed me sandwiches and get between me and trouble.
After he’d stopped wanting to kill me, of course.
Our standoff was a delicate balance, straddling caution and curiosity. I’d stopped seeing him as a threat the moment he’d offered me food with no strings attached, but there was still a whole lot of territory between someone not wanting to kill me and someone I could trust. He didn’t ask personal questions, didn’t crowd me, but his eyes were sharp, always watching. As if he were trying to figure out what I was made of.
And me? I couldn’t stop watching him either. I didn’t know if it was gratitude or lust or the strange peace I found in the quiet between us, but I found myself settling more than I should have. There was something oddly intimate about eating lunch across from him, and not once did he push or pry.
“And you’re gay?” I asked before I could rethink that.
He stopped eating, comically still. “Bi,” he said after a beat. “Leaning toward guys, y’know.”
“Good to know.” I smiled faintly and thumbed at my chest. “Gay.”
He raised an eyebrow, raked a glance from myhead to my chest and back again. “Good to know,” he repeated, then shrugged. “But useless information, because you’re clearly you…” he waved a hand at me, “… and I’m not the guy you’re looking for.”
“You don’t knowwhatI want.”
“Sure, I do. And I’m not some giant dude built to toss around pretty little twinks.”
My mouth dropped open. “I’mnota twink.”
He wrinkled his nose, clearly regretting the phrasing. “I meant—y’know—small and delicate and… bendy or whatever.”
I snorted a laugh. “I’ll admit that I’m smaller than you, and yeah, I’m bendy when I haven’t been shot and nearly strangled.”
He dipped his head, and his cheeks flushed, which was so freaking cute.
Cute? The hell, Lyric.
“But, Rio, what the fuck makes you think I’m delicate?”
He met my gaze, the heat still in his cheeks. “Well, you’re… y’know… I can lift you and shit, and you can’t walk right and?—”
I stood before I could think twice, the scrape of the chair loud in the kitchen. He stayed seated, eyes lifting to meet mine, but he didn’t lean away when I stepped close. I bent down, slow and deliberate, untilmy mouth hovered beside his ear, close enough to feel his breath hitch.
“Give me a day,” I murmured, my voice low, rougher than I meant. “And I’ll have you on your knees before you even fucking know it.”
He sank back in his chair, loose and quiet, not saying a word—but I saw it. Submission, flickering in his gaze. A secret. He was melting right there in front of me, and fuck if that didn’t make me want to chase it, press my mouth to his, and see how far I could push him before he broke.
I straightened, pulse loud in my ears, and stared at him.
He didn’t look away.
And neither did I.
