“Got held up,” he said quietly.
Not an excuse.
A statement.
But I’d been sitting in this apartment, overthinking every possible reason he might not show.
My chin lifted slightly, wounded pride sneaking in before I could stop it.
“I figured.”
His eyes narrowed, as if reading more than my words.
“Everything all right?”
I hesitated.
Notebook. Rose’s secrets.
Fear threaded through my earlier excitement.
“No,” I admitted softly. “Not really.”
His posture shifted instantly.
Alert.
Protective.
“Talk to me.”
And suddenly, I was very aware of how late it was.
How quiet the building felt.
How alone I’d been until he knocked.
And how much safer the apartment felt with him standing in the doorway.
So, I stepped aside.
“Come in.”
He walked in, and I closed the door behind him, the soft click of the lock suddenly loud in the quiet apartment.
For a second, we just stood there.
Too close.
The hallway narrow enough that his body heat brushed mine through layers of clothing. The faint scent of cold air and something darker—soap, leather, smoke maybe—clinging to him. Real. Solid.
My pulse jumped like a teenage girl’s.
Focus.
I moved to pick up the notebook, grateful for the excuse to put space between us before my brain fully short-circuited.
“I found something,” I said, straightening and holding it up.
