For one hazy second, my muscles don't tense.
Cotton whispers as I shift. Salt and soap fill my next breath, mingling with something that reminds me of afternoons on his motorcycle, wind and sunshine trapped in leather.
Gage.
The memory settles into place slowly, like puzzle pieces clicking together in the right order. The party, the chaos, his room, his question.
I don't move. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and each heartbeat pulses dully against my temples. The sheets beneath me smell like fabric softener and him—a scent I shouldn't recognize but do. When I'd first slid under his comforter, he'd left six careful inches between us. Now his chest presses against my back, warm and solid, his knee tucked behind mine.
I don’t mind.
His face is buried against my hair, breath warm against my scalp. My muscles tense, then relax. I count his heartbeats against my spine—one, two, three—and picture myself rolling over, our noses brushing, his sleepy eyes blinking open. In that half-dream, his palm would slide up my back, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer until?—
I exhale slowly through my nose and stare at the wall.
Instead, I lift my head a fraction of an inch. His arm constricts around my waist, fingers splaying wider across my ribs. I freeze. His thumb grazes the underside of my ribcage.
“Gage,” I breathe, the word barely disturbing the air.
A rumble vibrates from his chest into my spine. His nose burrows deeper into my hair.
I count to three, then slide my leg toward the edge of the mattress. One inch. Two. His weight shifts with mine like we're tethered. I peel his fingers back one by one and roll away. The bedroom air hits my skin like a splash of cold water, raising tiny bumps across my arms where his heat had been.
I grab my empty glass from his nightstand and pad across the floor, each step a whisper against hardwood. The hallway stretches before me, shadows pooling in corners where sunlight hasn't yet reached. Last night's chaos has vanished—no red cups tipped on their sides, no sleeping bodies draped across furniture. Someone's scrubbed away the evidence, leaving only the ghost of cigarettes and pool chemicals hanging in the air.
My bare feet stick slightly to the kitchen tile. The faucet's hiss fills the silence as water splashes against glass. I gulp it down, ice-cold against my teeth, shocking my throat. The house holds its breath around me—no music, no laughter, no voices. Just the tick of a clock somewhere and my own heartbeat in my ears.
My gaze drifts toward the sliding glass doors at the back of the house. A shadow shifts beyond the patio—there, then gone.My pulse quickens. I bite my lower lip, hesitating only a second before my fingers curl around the door handle. The latch clicks softly as I slide it open just enough to slip through.
A silhouette stretches across the lounger, long legs crossed at the ankles, one arm flung behind his head. Moonlight catches on the rim of a tumbler beside him, liquid glinting amber when he shifts. The cherry of a joint pulses orange as he inhales, then fades to gray ash as smoke spirals upward, disappearing into the night air.
My bare feet whisper against concrete. Two steps.
“Not a great idea to sneak up on me, baby.” His voice slides through the darkness, rough-edged and warm.
He lifts his hand just enough that moonlight catches on metal—black steel nestled against denim, his finger resting alongside the trigger guard, not on it.
My bare feet root to the concrete. The night air suddenly feels colder against my skin.
“I wasn't sneaking,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest, fingertips digging into my biceps. “And I thought I told you not to call me that.”
Rafe tilts his head back, lips parting as smoke unfurls between them in a lazy spiral. His gaze lifts beneath heavy lids, catching mine through the haze, holding there a beat too long. One corner of his mouth hitches upward, deepening the shadow in his dimple.
“Yeah.” The word hangs between us as his thumb traces the rim of his glass. “But you didn’t mean it.”
My pulse steadies. I exhale, roll my eyes, and drift closer to the lounger. The cushion dips beneath my weight as I perch beside his legs. “Why are you still awake?”
He inhales deeply, the cherry of the joint glowing bright orange before he taps it against the ashtray with practicedfingers. Smoke curls from his lips when he speaks. “Why are you?”
My gaze catches on the shadow beneath his sleeve where I know the bandage sits. Without thinking, my fingertips find the hem of his cut-off tee. The cotton is soft, worn thin from too many washes. I hesitate, but he remains still, watching me through half-lidded eyes. The fabric lifts easily, revealing a square of gauze, stark white against his tan skin.
“Looks good,” I whisper, tracing the edge of the tape with my thumb.
Rafe leans his head back against the lounger, a small sigh escaping through his parted lips as my thumb traces the edge of the tape. His lashes flutter against his cheeks for a heartbeat before he murmurs, “Told you. I'm hard to kill.”
“I noticed,” I say, withdrawing my fingers from his skin.
The pool water laps against the concrete edge in gentle waves. Somewhere behind us, the last log in the bonfire splits with a soft crack, sending a spiral of orange sparks into the darkness.
