She steps aside to let me in, and I notice immediately that her laptop is closed. No research. No timeline. Just the quiet intimacy of her space at two in the morning.
I drop my bag by the door and stand there awkwardly, not sure what I'm doing here or what she wants from me.
She closes the distance between us and touches my ribs, like she's checking for damage.
I wince despite trying not to.
Her eyes meet mine. "You don't have to pretend with me."
The words detonate something inside me.
All the restraint I've been holding onto — the control, the careful distance, the pretending I'm not falling for her cracks wide open.
I kiss her.
Not soft like last time. Not testing.
Hungry.
My hands find her waist, pulling her against me. She responds immediately, her fingers threading through my hair, her body pressing into mine.
All the adrenaline from the game, all the frustration from Theo's cold assessment, all the fear of what I'm risking by being here — it pours into this kiss.
She walks backward toward the bed, pulling me with her. I follow, my hands already finding the hem of her tank top, sliding beneath it to feel the warmth of her skin.
She breaks the kiss long enough to pull her shirt over her head, and I stop.
"Are you sure?"
Instead of answering, she pulls me back to her, her mouth finding mine again with an answer that doesn't need words.
Clothes disappear in urgent, clumsy movements — her sweatpants, my shirt, the compression wrap around my ribs that she carefully peels away. She traces the bruise with her fingertips, and I catch her wrist gently.
"I'm fine," I murmur against her neck.
"It’s okay," she whispers back, “to not be. It’s just me."
I pull back and look into her eyes. She means it. Her gaze softens as she touches my face, a small smile pulling at her lips. I kiss her again, and this time we fall onto the bed as I press myself against her.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her hair’s across the pillow, her chest rising fast, and she’s wearing nothing but ascrap of cotton that I hook my fingers into and drag down her legs without asking.
I’m supposed to be preventing her from doing anything reckless, and here I am being just that.
I drop my mouth to her throat and drag it down her collarbone, sternum, the soft curve of her breast. I take my time there, my tongue tracing until she shifts beneath me with a quiet, impatient sound that tells me exactly what she wants.
I don't give it to her yet.
I keep moving down to her ribs, stomach, the soft skin below her navel, and her fingers thread into my hair and tighten when I press an open kiss to the inside of her hip.
"Beck." My name comes out breathless.
I kiss her again, not answering. Then I part her thighs and settle between them. I take her apart slowly — mouth only, unhurried, thorough — until her hips are rolling against me and her grip in my hair has gone from polite to desperate. She tries to muffle the sounds she's making, and I pull back just enough to say, "Don't."
She stops trying.
I work her until her thighs are trembling on either side of my head and she's saying my name on a loop, broken andbreathless, and then I push her over — feeling the moment she falls, the way her whole body shudders, the sound she makes that I am going to be thinking about for a very long time.
I work my way back up her body while she's still coming down, and she reaches for me immediately, pulling me in, impatient.
