Unknown
Little Heaven.
Unknown
You have no idea what you’re doing to me.
I should be scared.
I’m not.
Instead, something warm and treacherous unfurls in my chest. I message Tate, laugh it off, make plans for lunch like my world hasn’t just tilted on its axis.
Hours later, sunlight kisses my skin as I walk toward our favourite café. I notice the black sports bike across the road and feel an inexplicable pull toward it. It hums with danger even at rest.
I find Tate slouched in a booth by the window, her head resting in her hands.
“Em, you’d better have areallygood fucking reason for dragging me out of bed,” she groans. “And you’re paying for my lunch.”
Despite the complaint, there’s a smile tugging at her lips, one that tells me she’s not actually mad.
“Oh, I do,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her and pushing my phone across the table.
She glances down at the screen, then back up at me, one perfectly shaped eyebrow lifting. “Okay… what am I looking at here, Em?”
I tilt my head. “Those are text messages from Khai. The same Khai who got shot at the nightclub. The one Ididn’tgive my number to. The one who somehow found out where I live and sent me flowers.”
Tate freezes. She just stares at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Completely speechless.
I clear my throat. “You don’t think that’s creepy?”
She finally moves, reaching across the table to place her manicured hand over mine. “Em, I love you,” she says solemnly, “but I do not have the emotional or mental capacity today to give good advice. Please return in one to two business days.”
She breaks into a giggle.
And, despite everything, so do I.
Lunch passes in a blur of caffeine and sarcasm. Tate calls him an admirer. I call him a problem. Neither of us sounds convinced.
After errands and full grocery bags, I fumble with my keys in the car park.
They hit the ground.
Before I can reach them, someone else does.
Black boots. Dark jeans. A tattooed hand offering my keys back to me.
My heart stops.
Khai.
I rise too quickly, dizzy, and suddenly his hands are on me, steady, unyielding. One at my waist. One anchoring my arm. He doesn’t let go. He studies me like I’m something he’s already claimed.
“Hello, Little Heaven.”
His voice is lower than I remember. Closer. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture intimate enough to steal my breath.
“You got my flowers.”
