Her eyes narrow. “You hate him.”
“I don’t hate him.” I pause. “Yet.”
She gives a quiet laugh, then sobers. “He wasn’t always bad, you know. He was… exciting. He made me feel like my brain was beautiful.”
I hold her gaze. “It is.”
The words come out too easy. Too honest.
Riley’s lips part like she wasn’t expecting that. Like she’s not used to the kind of compliment that isn’t trying to take something.
And I realize with a jolt—she’s been surrounded by people who want her work. Want her mind. Want what she can build.
How many of them have ever wantedher?
The thought hits like a punch.
I’m still in front of her. Too close. The firelight moves across her face, turning her lashes gold. She smells like soap and whatever lotion she uses—something clean and soft under the sharper scent of stress.
She shifts, her knee bumping mine. Her voice drops. “You’re staring.”
I don’t look away. “You’re here.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
Her throat bobs. Her gaze drops to my mouth—just for a second—and then back to my eyes.
The cabin gets quieter. Even the wind feels far away.
She licks her lips.
I feel it everywhere.
“Crewe,” she says, softly.
I should stand up. I should create space. I should remember the plan. The mission. The threats.
But the way she says my name feels like a hand on my chest, pulling.
“Yeah,” I murmur.
She inches closer, slow enough that I can stop it if I want to.
I don’t.
“I’m scared,” she whispers again, like she’s giving me the truth she’s been hiding under jokes and cheddar rants and stubborn bravery.
I reach up and cradle the side of her face, my palm warm against her cheek. Her skin is soft, but the tremor in her breath tells me she’s holding herself together by sheer will.
“You don’t have to be brave with me,” I say.
Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. She just leans into my hand like she’s been starving for comfort she trusts.
And then she moves.
Not fast. Not frantic.
