I continue painting her other toenails, taking my time with each one. She watches me, flushed and quiet, her usual torrent of words temporarily dammed. The silence between us isn’t awkward—it’s charged, electric even.
When I finish, I press one last kiss to her instep before releasing her foot. She pulls it back slowly, almost reluctantly, her eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re very good with your hands,” she says, an edge of teasing returning to her voice.
“You have no idea,” I respond, letting my gaze drag slowly up her bare legs to the frayed hem of those sinful shorts.
“I think I do,” she volleys, grinning widely. “From what I remember, you weren’t just good. You were amazing.”
She reaches for the wine bottle, only to find it empty. We’ve killed the second one without noticing, lost in each other and the strange domesticity of the moment.
“High praise,” I rasp.
Raven just grins as she caps the marker and tosses it onto the coffee table, stretching her legs out to admire her newly pink toes.
“Pretty,” she declares, wiggling them in the air.
A switch flips somewhere deep inside me as I watch her, and I realize I want more of this. More of her chaos, her laughter. More… her.
“Let’s get ice cream,” I say suddenly.
She blinks at me, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. “Now? It’s almost midnight.”
“I know a place that’s open late.” I shrug, trying to make the suggestion seem casual even as my pulse races. “Let’s do somethingreal.”
A slow smile spreads across her face, genuine in a way her usual smirks aren’t. “Ice cream with a Mob boss after midnight,” she muses. “Why the hell not?”
It’s such a small thing—ice cream, for fuck’s sake—but the way she says yes, like she’s accepting so much more than a late-night snack, makes something in my chest crack open.
The night air hits my face as we step outside her building, warm for late May but cooler than the heat we’ve generated inside. Raven reaches for my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Her fingers slide between mine, small, and cool against my palm. The gesture catches me off guard—more intimate than the filthy things we’ve done to each other’s bodies. Hand-holding feels like crossing a line I didn’t know existed.
“I think this is something couples do,” she says with a half-smile, giving my hand a little squeeze.
I look down at our intertwined fingers, surprised by how right it feels. “I wouldn’t know,” I respond, the corner of my mouth lifting. “Never been in one.”
To my surprise, she laughs. “Me neither, Matty.” She squeezes my hand again. “But handholding and stupid nicknames can’t be too far off. All the chick flicks make it practically mandatory.”
“Wait,” I say, my voice low. “You’ve never had a boyfriend?”
She scrunches up her nose. “Not really, no.” Peering up at me, she licks her lips. “Is that weird?”
“It’s fucking perfect,” I decide.
Cleveland at midnight is a different animal than the city in daylight. Softer in some ways, sharper in others. Streetlights cast pools of amber across the sidewalk, and the distant hum of traffic provides a steady backbeat to our footsteps.
Raven walks close beside me, her shoulder occasionally brushing against my arm. “You really know a place that’s open this late?” she asks, glancing up at me.
“Russo-owned,” I explain. “They don’t close.”
She laughs, the sound echoing off brick buildings. “Of course. What good is being the big bad wolf if you can’t get a cone whenever you want?” I lead her around a corner, down a side street lined with darkened storefronts.
The ice cream shop is a small, unassuming place with a neon sign that flickers in the window. When we enter, the lone employee behind the counter straightens immediately, recognition and fear flashing across his face.
“Mr. Russo,” he stammers, wiping his hands on his apron. “What can I get you?”
I nod toward Raven. “Ladies first.”
