Rogue turns to me. “You ready, lass?”
I nod.
He grabs my carry-on and rolls it beside him as we head toward the elevators. The air feels heavier here, quiet, almost private. Once inside it, he presses the Basement button. The doors close with a soft chime.
For a second, neither of us speak. The hum of the elevator fills the small space, and I feel the charge between us like static. He’s watching me, the careful way his brows pull together telling me he’s studying every shift in my expression before he makes a move.
I smile; if he only knew the list running through my head—the things I want to do, the way I want to touch him, the ache of wanting to feel his heartbeat under my hand again—he might act a little differently.
The elevator dings and the moment breaks.
Waiting just outside is a sleek black town car, polished to a mirror shine. A man in a dark suit leans casually against it, straightening as soon as he sees us.
“Mr. Gallagher,” he greets, stepping forward to take the bags. “Miss.”
Rogue nods. “Aye, Smith. This is Catalina.”
Smith sets the bags beside the trunk and turns to me with a courteous smile. “Miss Catalina,” he says, offering his hand.
I shake it, and he opens the door. “Thank you,” I murmur, sliding into the back seat.
Rogue loads my backpack into the trunk before Smith shuts it with a soft click. Rogue says something low to him that I can’t hear, then the door opens and he’s beside me again, close enough his shoulder brushes mine.
Smith climbs into the driver’s seat. “Where to, boss?”
Rogue glances at me, a silent question.
“One-twenty-two Ocean Avenue, please,” I say.
“Yes, ma’am.” Smith puts the car in drive. The city slips by outside the windows—blurry streetlights and distant neon, the faint reflection of us in the glass.
I smile softly and rest my hand on his knee. A quiet reassurance. A silent I want this.
His hand finds my hip, firm and certain, guiding me closer until there’s no space left between us.
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me, half surprise, half surrender. My head fits perfectly against his chest, and his heartbeat is fast and wild beneath the calm surface he wears so well.
When I look up, his eyes are already on me—gray and bright and full of that glint that undoes every defense I’ve ever built.
I don’t even think. I just smile.
He closes the distance, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that starts soft—careful, reverent—but deepens in seconds. It’s slow and deliberate, every movement charged and aching. His hand traces my jaw, thumb sweeping across my cheek as if he’s memorizing me.
My fingers slide up to his chest, relishing the warmth of him through his shirt, the steady drum of his pulse beneath my palm. His other hand moves lower, settling at my waist, drawing me closer still.
The kiss feels endless. Sweet and unhurried, but heavy with everything we haven’t said yet.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless, lips tingling, every nerve alive.
And I think—life couldn’t feel more perfect than it does right now.
The thirty-minute drive to my apartment feels like seconds. I stay curled against him the entire way, my head resting on his chest, his touch leaving a trail of heat. Neither of us speak as the world outside blurs in gold and shadow, and we drift somewhere between real life and something softer.
When the car finally slows to a stop, Smith steps out and walks around to Rogue’s side, his back turned as he waits for instruction.
I look up at Rogue. He’s already watching me, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“I don’t want to let you go, kitten,” he murmurs.
