My phone buzzes in my pocket—once, then again.
Reality pounding on the door.
I curse under my breath, not taking my eyes off her as I fish it out.
A text from Ryder:WEATHER SHIFT. ROAD’S GETTING WORSE. DILLON SAYS GET BACK.
I close my eyes for a second.
Mila watches me, breathing hard. “Is everything okay?”
I slide my phone back into my pocket, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
It’s a lie. Everything is not okay.
Because I’m sitting on a couch with a woman I just kissed like I’ve been starving, and now I have to leave her here while my body screams to stay.
I stand, forcing space between us before I do something I won’t be able to take back.
Mila rises too, slower, like she’s reluctant. “You’re leaving.”
“I have to,” I say, voice rough.
She nods, biting her lip like she’s trying not to look disappointed.
It works. It doesn’t.
I move toward the door, then stop and turn back.
Mila’s eyes lift to mine.
I hold her gaze for a long beat, letting myself feel it—this pull, this heat, this impossible sweetness.
“Sunday,” I say.
Her brows lift. “Sunday?”
“Dinner,” I clarify, like it’s not the most dangerous sentence I’ve spoken in years. “June’s going to corner you. Don’t let her scare you.”
Mila’s mouth quirks faintly. “I’m more scared of you than June.”
I step closer again before I can stop myself, lowering my voice. “You shouldn’t be.”
Her breath catches.
I reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, slow and careful. “Lock your door tonight,” I say.
“I will,” she whispers.
“And Mila?”
“Yes?”
My gaze drops to her mouth again—those swollen lips I did that to—and my voice goes even lower. “Don’t overthink that kiss.”
Her cheeks blaze. “I wasn’t going to.”
I lift an eyebrow.
