I don't care. Not even a little bit.
"Don't do that again," I say against his mouth, because he's still close enough to kiss, and I might do it again if he keeps looking at me like that. Like I'm worth coming home for.
"Can't promise that," Cassian says, and he's smiling now. Actually smiling. The kind of smile that reaches his eyes and makes them look less cold and more like they're reflecting something warm. "Fire happens. I respond. That's the job. You know that."
"Then I'm coming with you next time," I say, and I realize it sounds like I'm joking, but I'm only half kidding. I'm entirely serious. I'm saying that I'd rather be close to the danger with him than be separated from him with worry eating me alive.
"Not a chance," he says, his voice firm but affectionate. "But I like knowing you care."
"I care," I say, and the words feel small compared to the enormity of what I'm feeling. "I care so much it terrifies me."
He leans in and kisses me again, softer this time but no less intense. When he pulls away, I'm dizzy and soot-covered and completely, absolutely certain that I'm falling for this man in a way that might destroy me if something ever actually goes wrong. But right now, in this moment, with him alive and holding me and kissing me in front of his entire crew and the entire neighborhood, that seems like a risk worth taking.
"Come on," he says, taking my hand. His fingers intertwine with mine, and I can feel the soot transferring to my skin, but I don't care. I like having his marks on me. I like feeling like I belong to someone. "Let me finish up here, and then I'm taking you home. We need to get you cleaned up."
"Okay," I say, and I let him lead me back toward the fire trucks, my hand in his, my heart still racing but for entirely different reasons now.
Jett catches my eye as we pass him, and there's something knowing in his warm brown gaze. Something that suggests he knew exactly what was going to happen when he called me out here. That he knew I needed to see Cassian alive. That he knew something in me would crack open if I didn't get confirmation that he made it through.
And maybe that makes Jett smarter than I am.
Because I'm only now fully realizing, standing here covered in soot and tears and completely undone, that losing Cassian would have broken something in me that I'm not sure could ever be repaired. That he's not just an attraction or a passing connection. That he's become essential.
That I'm in love with him.
Thank you, universe, for scaring the absolute hell out of me and then putting me back together again. I can't remember the last time an alpha made me feel like this. Whole. Safe. Cherished. But I like it. No. I love it.
12
JETT
My phone buzzes for the third time in ten minutes.
I'm sitting alone in the house with nothing to do again, which is exactly as messy as my life currently feels. Stunt scripts scattered across the coffee table. Half of them have rejection emails attached. The other half are offers for jobs so low-budget that they're barely worth the travel time. There's a dent in the drywall from where I punched it last week. There's also a hole in my confidence that's getting bigger every day.
The buzzes are from my agent.
I don't answer. I know what he's going to say. Another job fell through. Another actor decided to do their own stunt work and save the money. Another contract canceled because someone younger and hungrier is willing to do the same work for half the price.
My career is dying. Actually dying. The thing I've built my entire identity around, the thing I've dedicated my life to, is slowly suffocating under the weight of changing industry standards and actors with egos bigger than their common sense.
I was supposed to be doing a car flip today. A big one. Insurance job worth forty grand. I was excited about it. Actually excited for the first time in months. And then the actor decidedhe wanted to do it himself. His agent said it would be good for the publicity. His insurance company said it was reckless and they wouldn't cover him.
Guess which option the actor chose anyway?
Fuck!
I need to be positive, but it’s so fucking hard when you’re down.
There's a knock on my door.
I don't move for a moment, hoping whoever it is will go away. I'm not in the mood for company. I'm not in the mood for anything except stewing in my own frustration and wondering when exactly my life became this predictable disaster.
The knock comes again. Harder this time.
"It's open," I call out, because apparently, I've given up on basic security protocols.
Sharon pushes the door open and stands in my doorway like she's trying to decide whether to come in or run. She's wearing jeans and a soft oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder. Her dark hair is twisted into a bun that looks like it might fall apart at any second. She's wearing no makeup, which means she just got off work. Her brown eyes are doing that concerned thing they do when she's worried about someone.
