Every coherent thought had dissolved. I existed entirely in the awareness of his body against mine—solid, immovable—and the sound of his voice still resonating.
“Do you understand me?”
I nodded. Small. Unsteady.
His lips brushed just below my ear—soft, a period at the end of a sentence.
Then, gradually, he eased back.
I had nothing. No words, no composure, nothing that competed with what he’d done to me with his voice alone and then finished with that single kiss.
His heartbeat thudded against my ear. Faster now. Not as steady as before, and knowing that sent another wave of warmth through me that I made no effort to stop.
His arms settled around me again, an oddly familiar weight that was entirely new. I closed my eyes.
Fourteen
Dead Serious -Finn
Acold drop hit my face, and I woke instantly.
Another, then another.
Rain.
Libby lay curled against me on the sagging rooftop couch, one hand still resting over my heart. Overnight, the sky had transformed, thick with heavy, rolling storm clouds, bruised purple-black, pressing down on the city below.
Then—lightning split the sky.
For a fraction of a second, the entire rooftop turned white.
Thunder followed immediately. Above us, a thin cascade of grit skittered off the ledge and pattered down across our legs.
Libby jolted awake, her body going rigid against mine, fingers digging into my shirt.
“Finn… what’s—?” Her voice was thick with sleep, roughened by a sharp edge of alarm.
I sat up, sweeping the roof. Everything in me became quiet and sharp at once.
“Storm,” I said quickly, to give her something solid to hold onto.
Another flash. The skyline appeared stark out of the dark—buildings, water towers, fire escapes, the skeletal outline of a crane on the neighboring block.
And movement. Far below, on the street.
The things.
They weren’t still.
They moved without direction—jerking toward each thunderclap, chasing noise they couldn’t locate. One walked straight into a parked car and kept going.
Same pattern. Sound-driven. Overwhelmed by it.
I acted on the idea before it could finish forming.
I gripped Libby’s shoulder. “Hey—focus. This might be our shot.”
She pushed herself upright, blinking hard against the rain already soaking through her clothes and plastering her hair flat against her face and neck. She shoved it back with one hand, jaw setting, her gaze sharpening.
