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Riley finally dragged her eyes away from his, and he didn’t rush to fill the silence. She settled onto the other kitchen chair. He grabbed the leg and tugged her closer, her feet landing on the floor in between his.

She liked that he wanted her close.

“I like the mugs. Makes more sense than a breakable wine glass.”

She laughed. “Right?! That is what I’ve always said!” She took a quick sip. “But no, that’s not fancy enough. ‘You have to do the wine justice.’” Her tone increased in pitch as she quoted her aunt.

He raised his mug to hers and touched them together. “Wine doesn’t need justice. People do.” His voice filled her kitchen with night air.

“That sounds very cop-like.”

He ruffled her hair and shook his head. “Nope. Just old habits. I was in the military for a long time.”

Riley looked at him as several things fell into place. The careful movement, the way he seemed like he could do anything. Or had already. The blankness in his gaze that seemed to come and go.

“Oh. That actually answers a bunch of questions.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah.” She gestured with her mug to his entire self, and he raised an eyebrow at her. “All the travel was military stuff?”

Saint nodded, and that blankness returned. Curiosity burned, but Riley knew better.

“Were you born here?” she asked instead, and he shook his head but didn’t elaborate.

“You were, right?” he said.

“Yeah. Why’d you move here?”

He picked up his wine and set it down again. His hand found hers, thumb brushing over her knuckles as he stared at them.

Goosebumps rippled up her forearm, and he smiled, following them with a fingertip.

“Someone suggested Cascadia. We were deployed in the desert, and he wouldn’t shut up about the rain. It sounded pretty nice right about then.”

She squeezed his hand, and he met her gaze.

“I like this,” he said quietly.

Riley sighed happily and scooted closer.

“What was it like growing up here?” he asked, before she could find out more about what the desert was like and who had told him to move here, and why here of all places. The rain wasn’t that nice.

She shrugged, enjoying the feel of her hand in his. “Rainy most of the time. Kristi was a complete terror, and my dad was a cop and then got into cybersecurity when he stopped patrol. I spent most of my time talking her out of getting us arrested, or talking my dad out of arresting us.”

Saint smiled. “Sounds like fun. You’ve known her a long time, then.”

She nodded. “Since grade eight.” Andrew too, but she didn’t feel like getting into that.

“You got a Kristi in your life?” Riley asked, tipping her head back. His arm was on the back of her chair, and she rested her cheek against it, her head heavy.

He chuckled. “A few, actually. Aaron and Wheeler—they’re my family. We served together. I grew up in foster care and don’t know of any biological family.” He shrugged, and she stared at him. It must’ve been the wine, but he might have had the most soulful eyes she’d ever seen.

“I found Cookie in a dumpster when I moved here a few years ago. And I suppose he might have been a bit like Kristi at the beginning. He was trouble.” He smiled at her. “Sometimes still is.”

He’d finished his wine. She got up to put on a pot of decaf, then returned to her spot. They kept talking, close and quiet, and at midnight, Riley was fighting to keep her eyes open.

She sat on the counter, foot tucked and chin on her knee, watching Saint shape the air with strong fingers and soft words. He told her about finding Cookie and opening the shop. About his bikes. He leaned in the crook of the counter within arm’s reach.