Rafe drifts to my side. “See anything, baby?”
“No.”
He doesn’t respond. His jaw shifts once, and then goes still.
Time stretches in a way that doesn’t feel tied to anything real.
We could have been standing here for five minutes or half an hour, and I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. The yard stays quiet, the shadows don’t shift, nothing moves, and I know I should be focused on that.
I am—mostly.
But my body hasn’t caught up yet.
It’s still keyed to him, to the way his hands felt on me, the way the bike moved under us, the way everything blurred together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. There’s a lingering awareness I can’t quite shake, like my skin is still remembering something my brain hasn’t decided what to do with yet.
I shift my weight and try to drag my attention back to the fence, to the gaps in the metal, to the sightlines we’re supposed to be watching.
It lasts about three seconds before my attention slides sideways.
Rafe is standing just a few feet away, angled toward the yard, his posture loose but not relaxed, like he’s ready to moveeven when he looks still. There’s no trace of what just happened written anywhere on him, no sign that an hour ago he was?—
I exhale slowly through my nose.
Focus, Bellamy.
His eyes cut to me without turning his head. “I can feel you staring, baby.” There’s the faintest hint of a smirk at the edge of his mouth when he finally looks at me.
I don’t even try to deny it.
“Can you blame me?” I ask quietly. “I’m a little distracted.”
His lips twitch. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay attention enough for the both of us.”
I tilt my head slightly, letting my gaze drag over him in a way that is absolutely not subtle. “So generous.”
Something shifts in his expression, brief but sharp, like he’s filing that away for later.
I force myself to look back at the yard, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse.
Because now I’m standing here, pretending to be part of something strategic and controlled, while there’s a very real part of me that is still back on that stretch of road, still caught in the moment where everything tipped and didn’t tip back.
It’s so ridiculous but I also get it. There’s a version of me that existed this morning, and the version of me standing here now. And they are not the same person.
It sounds more dramatic than it feels. If Lola could hear me right now, she would absolutely call me out on it, probably use the worddickmatizedwith a level of enthusiasm I don’t need in my life.
But she wouldn’t be wrong.
And I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to be the version of me who doesn’t know what it feels like to be with him like that, who hasn’t felt that kind of intensity, that kind of pull, that kind of complete, consuming awareness.
I’ve never felt more alive than I did this afternoon. And that wouldn’t be such a problem if it was just him.
But it’s not—it’s all of them.
That same thread, that same pull, that same dangerous, addictive edge that keeps showing up no matter which one of them I’m standing next to.
I drag a hand through my hair and look back out at the yard, forcing myself to focus again.
My phone vibrates in my hand. Bishop texted the group chat.
