This would be child’s play for someone like him.
“Who are you, Khai?” I murmur, the question softer now, edged with something dangerous.
The realization hits a moment later, sharp and disorienting. I should be terrified. I should be panicking, deleting the event, running for the hills.
Instead, my chest loosens.
I feel… safe.
The thought is earth-shattering.
I set my phone on the charger with unsteady hands and curl beneath the covers, pulling them up like armour. I tell myself I’m done for the night. That I won’t think about him anymore.
Sleep comes faster than it should.
And when it does, he’s there too, waiting for me in the dark, exactly where he said he’d be.
Tomorrow is already counting down.
I wake to the rich smell of fresh coffee, warm and grounding. I roll onto my side, blinking blearily, and find Tate already sitting up in my bed,back against the headboard, a takeaway cup in hand like she owns the place.
“Youbetterhave one for me,” I groan, my voice rough with sleep.
She smirks. “Obviously.” She reaches over to the bedside table and hands me a cup. “You really think I’d interrogate you without caffeine?”
I huff a laugh and push myself upright, cradling the cup between my hands as I take my first sip. Salvation. I settle back against the headboard, bracing myself.
Tate watches me for a beat, then grins like she’s been waiting for this all night.
“Sooo,” she drawls. “First of all, he is hot, Em. Like,criminallyhot. And that whole bad-boy thing? Devastating.” She wiggles her eyebrows for emphasis.
“I think we’ve established he’s not your average guy off the street,” I mutter, a reluctant smile tugging at my mouth.
Her expression shifts, still playful, but sharper now. “Ryan never stood a chance, did he?”
The question lands heavier than I expect. My gaze drops to the coffee resting between my hands.
“Oh my god, Ryan.” I look up suddenly, guilt flashing through me. “I just… left him there.”
Tate waves it off, far too casually. “I wouldn’t worry. We may or may not have… gotten on quite well after Khai left.” She gives me a sheepish wink. “That’s okay, right?”
I stare at her for half a second before laughing softly. “Tate, of course it is. Who am I to judge after last night?” Heat creeps up my neck, memories stirring unbidden.
She studies me again, more seriously this time. “So,” she says, lowering her voice just a fraction. “The real question. Are you going to let the dark, mysterious hottie take you on that date?”
I take another slow sip of my coffee, meeting her eyes, and then deliberately look away.
Because I don’t answer.
Because I haven’t decided.
And because part of me already knows exactly how this is going to end.
After Tate leaves, I throw myself into anything that might keep my mind occupied. I clean the apartment until it smells faintly of detergent and order. I run errands I don’t strictly need to run. I even curl up with a book, forcing my eyes over words that refuse to stick.
None of it works.
Tate’s question follows me from room to room, heavy and persistent.
