Even if my heart hadn’t quite caught up yet.
Chapter 16
Kieren
I followed her taillights through the city, the soft red glow pulsing like a heartbeat just ahead of me. The interview was over, the studio behind us, but my thoughts hadn’t quieted. Not with Daphne still in them—like a song I couldn’t turn off.
Ryder had been a prick. Pressing. Prying. Hiding barbs behind fake curiosity. I wanted to knock the smug out of his voice every time he questioned her like she didn’t belong in this world.
But Daphne held her own. Like she always did.
She just shouldn’t have had to.
She pulled into her usual spot in front of the apartment building, smooth and practiced, like it was any other night. But it wasn’t. Not after that interview. Not after the things that hadn’t been said between us.
I parked behind her, engine ticking quietly as it cooled. For a second, I just sat there. Watching her grab her bag, tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, and head up the sidewalk like she hadn’t just flipped the script on national TV.
She didn’t wait for me.
But I got out anyway.
Caught up to her right as she reached her door.
She glanced over her shoulder, one brow lifting like a challenge. “You coming in, or just planning to hover outside like a creep?”
That smirk of hers—I’d started craving it more than I should’ve.
“Bit harsh, Sommers,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets.
She turned the key in the lock but didn’t open the door right away. Just stood there, keys still in hand, like she was waiting for something. Or maybe… someone.
The air between us was thick—charged. Like we were still back in the studio, mic’d up, playing roles we hadn’t rehearsed.
But out here? There was no script.
Just her.
And me.
I stepped closer, brushing my fingers against the small of her back as I moved past her into the apartment. “Didn’t peg you as the type to leave a man loitering in the hallway.”
She shut the door behind us.
Silence settled—but it wasn’t empty. It pulsed. Breathing with all the things we hadn’t said. The kiss we hadn’t talked about. The fact that I’d nearly throttled a reporter because of her.
I looked at her—really looked.
And for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t wondering if she was going to let me in.
Only how far.
Her apartment was nothing like I expected—and somehow exactly right.
Cozy, but not delicate. Lived-in. Like her.
The place wasn’t trying to impress anyone. It just… was. A soft throw draped over the back of the couch. A cracked mug drying on the dish rack. A stack of well-worn books on the coffee table, some with dog-eared pages. Post-its cluttered the fridge in chaotic clusters—reminders to herself, most scribbled in sharp all-caps. Some I couldn’t help but read: GET MORE COFFEE, WED: DEADLINE, CALL MOM.
Photos lined a corkboard near the door. Most were old, taken with film—her and a redheaded girl at a theme park, both missing teeth and sticky with cotton candy smiles. I didn’t know who the other girl was, but the bond was obvious. Some shots were more recent—Daphne holding a mic on the field, laughing with her head thrown back.
