I kiss her again—slower, deeper, savoring. My hands move with purpose now: a thumb tracing the curve of her hip, fingers sliding under the hem of her hoodie just enough to feel the warmth of her skin at her waist.
She shivers, breaking the kiss with a soft gasp.
“Okay?” I ask immediately.
“Yes,” she breathes, and her hands slide into my hair, tugging gently like she’s learning what I like.
I let out a low sound, and she smiles—small and triumphant.
“That,” she murmurs, “was a very satisfying noise.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I mutter, kissing her mouth again.
“Oh, I’m absolutely getting cocky.”
I laugh—quiet, surprised—and she looks at me like she caused it. Like she’s proud she pulled it out of me.
She kisses my smile away.
For a minute, the world narrows to the heat between us. Her mouth. Her breath. The way she melts when I hold her. The way she clings like she’s afraid the moment will end if she loosens her grip.
And the truth that sits heavy in my chest:
I really like her.
Not the idea of her. Not the adrenaline of the mission. Not the fantasy.
Her.
The way she’s brave even when she’s scared. The way she jokes through panic. The way she listens when you give her something real.
The way she looked at me tonight when I told her about my father—like she saw the seventeen-year-old in me and didn’t turn away.
I break the kiss again, breathing hard, and force myself to slow.
“We should sleep,” I say, voice rough.
Riley’s eyes flick down to my mouth. “That sounds like a lie.”
“It’s not.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “It’s me trying to keep you safe.”
Her expression softens. She rests her forehead against mine. “You make it hard to think.”
“Good,” I murmur. “Thinking is overrated.”
She laughs quietly, then slides off my lap reluctantly. We stand there for a second, staring at each other like we can’t remember how to be normal.
Finally, she reaches for my hand.
“Come on,” she says, voice gentle. “Bed. Adults. Remember?”
I follow her to the bed, every muscle tight with restraint.
She crawls under the covers. I slide in beside her, leaving space—less than before, but still space.
Riley turns onto her side, facing me. Her fingers find my wrist, tracing the vein there like she’s grounding herself.
“Crewe?” she whispers.
