It isn’t gentle.
It isn’t tentative.
It’s a claim—hot, steady, unfiltered. Like he’s been holding back for years and decided he’s done pretending. His hand tightens at my waist, pulling me in until there’s no space left to breathe, and I hate how fast I melt into him. I hate how my fingers grab his shirt like I’m afraid he’ll disappear.
Wyatt’s kiss deepens, slow and devouring, and the world narrows to heat and breath and the hard line of his body against mine. I make a sound I don’t recognize—half protest, half surrender—and Wyatt answers it with a low growl that vibrates against my mouth.
I should push him away.
I should remember Wade.
I should remember this is “temporary.”
Instead, I tilt my head and kiss him back like I’m starving.
Wyatt’s hand slides up the back of my neck into my hair, fingers tangling, controlling the angle like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. His mouth moves against mine like he’s writing a rule I can’t break.
When he pulls back, it’s only an inch. Close enough that his lips still brush mine when he speaks.
“Tell me you’re going back to him,” he says, voice rough. “Tell me, and I’ll let you.”
My breath comes out shaky. “I’m not.”
Wyatt’s eyes flash. “Say it again.”
“I’m not,” I repeat, and my voice is stronger now. “I’m not going back.”
Wyatt kisses me again, shorter this time, like punctuation.
Then a siren blares in the distance.
For half a second, it doesn’t register.
Then it does—because the sound cuts through everything in Devil’s Peak. It’s the sound of emergency. The sound that owns Wyatt more than I ever could.
Wyatt goes still.
His head turns toward the station radio on his belt like he can hear it before it speaks.
A crackle.
Then dispatch: “Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue—structure fire. Possible occupants. Respond.”
Wyatt’s whole body shifts. Duty snaps into place like armor.
He looks at me, jaw tight, eyes still dark from the kiss, and something like frustration flickers across his face—like he wants to stay and tear the world apart for me, but he’s wired to run toward the flames.
“I have to go,” he says.
My throat tightens. “Wyatt?—”
He grips my face gently—too gently for how hard he is everywhere else. “You stay inside. You lock the doors. You don’t open for anyone.”
My pulse spikes again. “You’re leaving me alone.”
His eyes harden. “Not unprotected. Call Wade?—”
“He left this morning for Sacramento.”
