Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room from everyone.
Except Lily. She’s silent, sitting beside me, watching me with that look that says she’s perched on the edge of something new, something frighteningly big, but thrilling.
Jonathan follows her gaze, then nods. “You two go. Take some time to talk things out.” He gestures toward the others. “We’ll handle the logistics.”
I squeeze Lily’s hand gently, feeling her relax against me, and I know this is just the beginning. For the first time there’s no schemes, no shadows, no running. Just us.
The room empties out around us. Bren pulls Owen toward the kitchen, Helen gives Lily a gentle touch on her shoulder before slipping out behind Jonathan and Da. Cora mouthstext me or I’ll kill youbut doesn’t push.
And then it’s just me and Lily and the weight of everything we haven’t said.
“You alright?” I ask softly.
She lets out a breath that’s shakier than she probably meant it to be. “I… yeah. I think so.”
“You think so?” I press, because I need truth from her more than anything else.
She hesitates, then looks up at me. “Are you?”
“No,” I say, because lying feels impossible around her. “And I won’t be until I know where we land after all of this.”
Her expression changes and something loosens, something relieved and terrified all at once. She reaches for my hand. Just slides her fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And the room stops spinning.
“I thought we were done pretending,” she whispers, looking up at me from under her lashes.
I squeeze her hand. “Sweetheart, I couldn't pretend anymore if my life depended on it.”
We leave the penthouse behind—the lift ride is silent, thick with everything we’re about to unpack. When the doors open onto my floor, she steps out first, still holding my hand like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
My flat is dim, quiet, and familiar. A space she’s been in a thousand times and absent from for too long.
The second the door clicks shut, something in the room shifts. Something inusshifts.
Her breath catches. Mine does too. The air between us crackles, electric, hungry, months of longing and fear and almost losing each other, collapsing into one impossible moment. One stolen night, one too brief weekend, is nowhere near enough to satiate the hunger I have for her.
I cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone, and she leans into the touch like she’s been starving for it. Maybe she has. God knows I have.
She steps closer, a smirk on her lips as she raises onto her tiptoes. Her hands slide up my shirt, fingers curling lightly at my collar, tugging me down to her level.
“Matt,” she whispers, and my name on her lips is a prayer, a plea, a promise. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
Jesus Christ.
Heat shoots straight through me.
“Yeah?” My forehead rests against hers, breaths mingling, bodies aligned in a way that makes my pulse stumble. “What do you want instead?”
Her lips graze mine—barely a touch, just a tease—but it sets every nerve in my body alight.
“You,” she murmurs. “Just you. I’ve missed you so much it hurts.”
“Sweetheart…” My hands slide down her back, along her sides, finding her hips, tugging her flush against me. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
She inhales sharply, and the sound wrecks me. Her fingers drag through my hair, slow and sure, tugging just enough to make me groan under my breath.
“Show me,” she whispers.
