He nods, eyes flicking between mine and my mouth — shy, yes, but steady. I brush my fingers along his jaw. He leans into it. Just enough.
Then I kiss him. Soft. Intentional. A promise, not a plea.
Cole wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer, and I groan. Could I please get him back to that couch and show him how the way he’s been acting lately is honest-to-God ruining me?
When we pull back, his eyes stay shut for a beat, like he’s letting the moment root. He opens them and the smile he gives me is slow, warm, devastating. “Goodnight, Xaden.”
“Goodnight, Cole.” I take the steps slower than I need to, because I want to keep this feeling intact for as long as possible.
I can still taste him on my lips when the shadows shift at the curb.
JJ steps out from behind a tree, half-lit by the streetlamp. Ronnie’s beside him, arms crossed, working a toothpick like it’s supposed to scare me.
“Long time no fuckin’ see,” JJ says, slick. I stop. Don’t reach for my keys. Don’t react. Just look bored.
“You’ve been real quiet lately,” Ronnie adds.
“You need something?” I ask flatly.
JJ smirks. “We see the way you look at him. He’s a liability.”
“Cole?” I scoff, lazy. “He’s nothing.”The words taste like broken glass. My chest knots, because I can still feel his kiss on my mouth, the warmth of him lingering like it belongs there. But I don’t let it touch my face. Not here. Not with them.
JJ’s mouth crooks. “Didn’t look like nothing when you kissed him on his porch.”
“‘Goodnight, Cole… goodnight, Xaden,’” Ronnie lilts in a falsetto, cackling. “Sounded real romantic.”
My jaw tightens; my face doesn’t. “What I do with him is my business.”
Ronnie steps closer. “Big Sam doesn’t like guys with feelings. Says it clouds judgment. Makes things messy.”
“Who said anything about feelings?” I let a flicker of irritation through, just enough to sell it. “I haven’t forgotten who I work for. I’ve been waiting on the text you were supposed to send me.”
JJ tilts his head, then nods slowly. “Alright, Bailey. On account of Sam still thinkin’ you’re useful.” He slides me a piece of paper with an address. “Tomorrow, eight.”
He leans in. “Be fuckin’ grateful you’re still invited.”
Ronnie flicks his toothpick onto the sidewalk like a mic drop. “Friendly advice? The more you hang around with your little prince, the more Keith’s ears perk up. You know how he is. Always wants other people’s toys. And the way he plays with ‘em? Can get brutal.”
My hands stay loose at my sides. “Duly noted.”
They melt back into the dark like cockroaches. I stand there a second longer, fists relaxed by force of will, breath even.
Then I look back at the porch where Cole just told me with his mouth and his eyes that he’s still here.
The clock just sped up. Fine. So will I.
The Lost Anchor is the kind of place where time sticks to the walls like old nicotine. Yellowed ceilings. Flickering neon beer signs. A jukebox that skips mid-song. Tables carved with initials, lies, and baddeals. It’s the kind of place where people disappear — and nobody asks why.
JJ’s already in the back. Ronnie’s beside him, hunched like a hunting dog, scanning the crowd like he’s hoping for a knife fight. They’re wound tight tonight. This isn’t about petty theft anymore.
I slide into the seat opposite them, my beer bottle landing with a soft clink.
JJ smirks. “You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss family night.”
Ronnie chuckles. “Who’s kissin’ your blondie goodnight now?” I ignore him, crack open my beer. Outside calm, inside Morse code of fury.
