Page 72 of Into Pitch

“No,” he agrees. “I’m telling you enough.”

“And the rest? Will you ever tell me?” I breathe, finally looking to him again. Not an inch of him is ruffled or out of place. As if this is just any other conversation had about any other topic.

“It would only burden you,” He supplies.

I scoff. “It’s a little late for that, Alex! I’m burdened. I’m burdened so heavily that if you ever get caught, my ass gets a cell next door for simply knowing you do it and not doing a damn thing about it!”

His brows raise at that. “I’m not going to get caught.”

“Says every criminal ever before they were caught,” I deadpan.

“It’s enough for tonight. For this conversation.” He replies evenly.

“It’s not enough! I don’t know if it will ever be enough.” I rasp, my hand shaking where they curl into fists.

“You wouldn’t still be here if it wasn’t.”

That knocks me silent.

I don’t have a clever comeback for that.

I just stand here, heart thudding, realizing something with a clarity that makes my skin prickle.

I’m as batshit as he is.

I learn something important over dinner.

Not from what she asks—she asks good questions, sharp ones—but from what happens after.

She doesn’t retreat nor fold in on herself the way most people do once they glimpse the truth. Sure, she tries to rationalize it, but she doesn’t moralize or reframe me into something easier to swallow.

She simply sits down and absorbs it.

And when the conversation drifts, when the weight eases just enough for the air to move again, she doesn’t get up and leave. That pleases me immensely.

It tells me I was correct in my assessment.

Information, when portioned carefully, doesn’t repel her. It may drown her for a moment, but she claws her way to the surface just so she can let it draw her closer. It gives her something to orient herself around, finding control through clarity.

I study her as we clean up in silence. The way she passes me the plates, our fingers brushing just enough to register. I feel it when she stills for half a second longer than necessary, a sharp spike of satisfaction curling low in my stomach.

My eyes never leave her. Not as the cabin settles into the night nor as the wind moves through the trees outside, low and constant, like breath. I watch her drift toward the windows, arms crossed loosely over herself, gaze tracking the dark.

She looks quieter now, but not fearful. Just processing.

I slowly cross the room, taking up space at her back and carefully sliding my hands to the width of her hips. Testing her reaction, and when she doesn’t push me away, they slide up to her arms. Mapping the little goosebumps that ripple to the surface at my touch as I crest over the top of her shoulders. Enamored by the way her hair stands on end when I capture her chin and turn her back to me just enough to give me access.

It’s a test as much as an indulgence of course, everything seems to be in this cabin.

I lower my mouth, and when she doesn’t pull away I know the bone-hard truth of us. I know she knows it too, even if she’s not ready to admit it out loud. I close the remaining distance between us, molding her to my chest as my lips find the warmth at the edge of her mouth. Listening to the little hitch of her breath and chasing it to the source.

I kiss her. It’s controlled and deliberate, but nothing is rushed. Nothing she can’t back away from if she really wanted to.

My little fox does not want to.

She answers immediately, mouth softening as she twists in my arms and her fingers lock around my shirt. I let her tongue trace the seam of my mouth, but when she makes to push in I pull back. She makes a sound of frustrated surprise and I smile despite myself.

She shoves back for me and I back a step, my hands remaining at her hips to ensure that she keeps with me. Her foot clips my own and she reaches up, her hand taking hold of the back of my head to pull me back down.