Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
I watch her anyway.
I can’t help it.
She’s wearing softness like armor tonight—an oversized hoodie, bare legs, hair loose and wild at her shoulders. She looks smaller in this place, away from the base, away from her lab, away from the things she understands. But there’s nothing fragile about her. She’s steel wrapped in freckles and stubbornness. She’s brilliant and furious and scared and trying not to show it.
And I keep thinking about the way her hand covered mine at the table. Like it belonged there. Like she wasn’t asking permission to comfort me—she was just doing it.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I don’t know what to do with her.
I check the perimeter twice, even though I checked it an hour ago.
Locks. Windows. Cameras. Sightlines.
The kind of routine that used to calm me.
Tonight it feels like I’m trying to outrun the fact that she’s here, in a bed that’s too close, in a cabin that’s too quiet, with a mouth I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since she asked me—would you have kissed me by now?
The answer is still yes.
The answer is getting louder.
When I come back inside, Riley is by the fireplace, hugging her knees, staring into the flames like she’s willing them to give her a plan.
She hears my boots and looks up. Those eyes—blue and bright and too honest—find mine and hold.
“You done doing your serial killer rounds?” she asks, trying for light.
“Professional rounds,” I correct.
She hums. “Sure. Professionally paranoid.”
I cross the room and stop a safe distance away. “You okay?”
Her smile is small. Real, but thin. “Define okay.”
I squat in front of her, elbows on my knees. “I’m listening.”
She swallows, gaze flicking to the side like she’s embarrassed to be seen with feelings. “I keep thinking about my lab. Like… what if I missed something? What if there was a note I didn’t grab, a drive I didn’t back up, some stupid sticky note with a password because I was tired and—”
“Riley,” I cut in, low and firm. “You didn’t do this.”
Her breath shakes. “I know.”
But she doesn’t know. Not in the way someone needs to know when their name is being dragged through the mud and their work is being turned into a weapon.
I reach out, thumb brushing her knee through the hoodie fabric. A small touch. Grounding.
She stills. Then she leans into it like she can’t help herself.
My chest tightens.
“That ex of yours,” I say, keeping my voice neutral even as something sharp coils in my stomach. “Evan.”
Her eyes narrow. “You hate him.”
“I don’t hate him.” I pause. “Yet.”
She gives a quiet laugh, then sobers. “He wasn’t always bad, you know. He was… exciting. He made me feel like my brain was beautiful.”
I hold her gaze. “It is.”
The words come out too easy. Too honest.
Riley’s lips part like she wasn’t expecting that. Like she’s not used to the kind of compliment that isn’t trying to take something.
And I realize with a jolt—she’s been surrounded by people who want her work. Want her mind. Want what she can build.
How many of them have ever wanted her?
The thought hits like a punch.
I’m still in front of her. Too close. The firelight moves across her face, turning her lashes gold. She smells like soap and whatever lotion she uses—something clean and soft under the sharper scent of stress.
She shifts, her knee bumping mine. Her voice drops. “You’re staring.”
I don’t look away. “You’re here.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
Her throat bobs. Her gaze drops to my mouth—just for a second—and then back to my eyes.
The cabin gets quieter. Even the wind feels far away.
She licks her lips.
I feel it everywhere.
“Crewe,” she says, softly.
I should stand up. I should create space. I should remember the plan. The mission. The threats.
But the way she says my name feels like a hand on my chest, pulling.
“Yeah,” I murmur.
She inches closer, slow enough that I can stop it if I want to.
I don’t.
“I’m scared,” she whispers again, like she’s giving me the truth she’s been hiding under jokes and cheddar rants and stubborn bravery.
I reach up and cradle the side of her face, my palm warm against her cheek. Her skin is soft, but the tremor in her breath tells me she’s holding herself together by sheer will.
“You don’t have to be brave with me,” I say.
Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. She just leans into my hand like she’s been starving for comfort she trusts.
And then she moves.
Not fast. Not frantic.
Just decisive.
Her fingers hook into my shirt and she pulls me toward her.
I let her.
We shift up onto the couch together. We’re close enough now that our knees touch, our shoulders brush. She looks at me like she’s making a choice.
A deliberate one.
“We’re adults,” she says, voice trembling on the words. “We can do this.”