Chapter 8
Kevin
I didn't sleep.
Not a single fucking second.
I lie on Steph's couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to her move around on the other side of that thin wall, and I know with absolute certainty that this is what torture feels like.
Because I heard everything. The walls are far too thin in this low-rent apartment.
Every soft sound. Every quiet gasp. The way her breathing changed, going quick and shallow. The rustle of sheets. And then—God help me—my name.
She moaned my name.
My fist hit the couch cushion before I could stop myself, and I've been lying here ever since with every muscle locked tight, my cock hard and raging for her, while I’m trying not to think about what it means.
Trying not to imagine walking through that door and showing her what I'd do if she said my name like that again.
But I can't go to her. Won't go to her.
Because Steph deserves better than me losing control. She deserves patience and care, and someone who won't push before she's ready, even when every instinct in my body is screaming at me to close the distance between us.
So I stay put.
And I don't sleep.
When the first hints of dawn filter through the windows, I give up and head for the shower. The water's as cold as I can stand it, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps.
By the time I'm dressed and making coffee, I'm running on fumes, desire, and tension that makes my hands shake as I pour.
I hear her bedroom door open.
Every nerve ending in my body lights up.
I turn, and there she is—sleep-rumpled and beautiful in an oversized hoodie and those damn sleep shorts, her hair a mess and her eyes still soft with sleep.
For half a second, she just stands there, and I can see the exact moment when memory floods back.
The way her cheeks flush. The way her breath catches.
She knows that I know.
"Morning," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
"Morning," she manages, already blushing.
I hold out her coffee mug, and when our fingers brush, the contact goes through me like electricity. Her pupils dilate, and I see her throat work as she swallows.
Yeah. She feels it too.
"Sleep okay?" I ask, unable to help myself.
"Fine," she lies.
"You?"
My mouth tips up despite everything. "About as well as you, I'd guess."
Her face is bright red, and I take pity on her.
"Coffee's strong this morning," I say, keeping my voice neutral even though there's nothing neutral about what I'm feeling. "Figured we could both use it."
"Thanks," she whispers.
We stand there in her tiny kitchen with about three feet of space between us that might as well be a canyon. The air feels thick, charged with everything we're not saying. Fear prevents us from reaching for everything we both want.
I take a sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug.
This is killing me.
"Steph," I say quietly. "We need to talk."
Her eyes go wide. "About what?"
"About this." I gesture between us. "About what's happening here."
"Nothing's happening—"
"Don't." The word comes out harder than I mean it to, and I soften my voice. "Don't lie to me. And don't lie to yourself."
She opens her mouth. Closes it. I can see her thinking, weighing, trying to figure out how much to admit.
I'm about to push—to tell her I know she feels this too, that I've been waiting for months and I'll wait as long as she needs but I need to know there's something here worth waiting for—when my phone rings.
Martinez.
Of course.
I glance at Steph apologetically and answer. "Dawes."
"Hey, got something you need to know." Martinez's voice is tight. "Elliott's been asking around town about Steph."
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "What?"
"Yeah. Lottie called it in this morning—said some guy matching Elliott's description was at the diner yesterday asking questions. Where Steph lives, whether she has a boyfriend, how long you two have been together."
Ice floods my veins. "He's violating the restraining order."
"Questions can be a violation, but it’s tough to prove intent. He hasn't approached her or The Lucky Tap." Martinez sounds as frustrated as I feel. "But it's escalating, Dawes. Guy's obsessed."
"I want to know every time he's spotted in town," I say, my voice hard. "Every single time."
"Already on it. Chief's aware. We're keeping our eyes out."
After we hang up, I stand there gripping my phone, trying to get my rage under control before I turn back to Steph.
She's watching me with wide eyes. "What happened?"
"Elliott's been asking around town about you." I force myself to keep my voice calm. "Trying to find out where you live. Whether we're really together."
Her face goes pale. "He can't do that. The restraining order—"
"Doesn't cover asking questions." I cross to her, unable to stop myself from reaching out and taking her hand. "But I'm handling it. Martinez is on it. The entire department's watching for him."
"Kevin—"
"He's not getting near you," I say firmly. "I promise you that."
She looks up at me, and there's fear in her eyes, but also something else. Trust. She believes I can keep that promise.
It makes my chest feel tight.
"I should get ready for work," she says quietly.
"You're not going in today."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"
"Elliott's digging around, trying to figure out your routine. I want you to stay here where I know you're safe."
"Kevin, I can't just hide—"
"One day," I interrupt. "Just give me one day to figure out what he's planning. Please."
She searches my face, then nods slowly. "Okay. One day."
Relief washes through me. "Thank you."
"But you have to let me help," she adds. "Whatever you're planning, I'm part of it."
I should argue. Should tell her to stay out of it and let me handle everything.
But the determined set of her jaw tells me that's not happening. She needs to feel like she has some control over her life, and I can’t fault her for that.
"Deal," I say.
I'm on the phone with Simon while Steph showers.
"I want better security at the bar," I tell him. "Cameras on all the entrances, including the back alley. Better lighting in the parking lot. And I want Archer to have backup on busy nights."
"Done," Simon says. "Whatever you need. Steph's one of ours."
"I know." I glance toward the bathroom, where I can hear water running. "And I appreciate it."
"How's she holding up?"
"She's strong," I say. "Stronger than she knows."
"She's got you," Simon points out. "That helps."
After we hang up, I make a few more calls. Troy agrees to increase his presence at the bar. Ace and Levi commit to regular drive-bys. I even call my former CO from my military days, who now runs a private security firm, just to get his read on the situation.
By the time Steph emerges from the bathroom—hair damp, wearing jeans and a soft baby pink that makes her eyes look impossibly blue—I've built a small army of protection around her.
"Coffee's cold," I say, nodding toward her abandoned mug.
"That's okay. I can—" She stops, staring at the fresh mug I've already poured and set on the counter. "You made me another one."
"Yeah."
She picks it up, and I watch her take a sip. Then she pauses, looking down at the mug with an expression I can't quite read.
"What?" I ask.
"You put sugar in it." Her voice is soft. "The right amount. Without asking."
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "I've been watching you make coffee for months, Steph. I know how you take it."
"I know." She sets the mug down and crosses to the counter where my coffee sits. "Black, no sugar. But you put one ice cube in it when it's fresh because you hate burning your tongue."
I freeze.
She's been paying attention to me.
The same way I've been paying attention to her.
"Steph—"
"I see you too, Kevin." Her eyes meet mine, and there's something vulnerable in them.
Something brave. "I know you think you're the only one watching, but I've been watching you too.
The way you check the exits whenever you walk into a room.
How you always position yourself between me and the door at the bar.
How you tap your fingers on your thigh when you're trying to stay calm.
" She pauses. "How you look at me like I'm something worth waiting for. "
My heart hammers against my ribs. "You are worth waiting for."
"What if I'm tired of making you wait?"
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with possibility.
I take a step toward her. Then another. Until we're close enough that I can see the pulse hammering in her throat, the way her breath has gone shallow.
"Steph," I say, my voice rough. "If we do this, I need you to be sure. Because once I touch you the way I've been dreaming about, I won’t be able to pretend this is fake anymore. I told you this."
"It's never been fake for me either," she whispers. "Not really."
I reach up slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, and cup her face in my hands. Her skin is soft and warm. She leans into my touch, eyes fluttering closed.
"Tell me what you want," I say.
"I want—"
A sharp knock at the door makes us both jump.
Steph's eyes fly open, and I drop my hand, instantly on alert.
"Steph!" Lottie's voice carries through the door. "I know you're in there! I brought banana bread!"
Steph drops her forehead against my chest with a groan. "I'm going to kill her."
Despite everything—the tension, the frustration, the moment we just lost—I laugh. "She means well."
"She has terrible timing."
"Yeah." I press a kiss to the top of her head, unable to help myself. "She really does."
Steph pulls back and goes to answer the door. Lottie sweeps in with a covered plate and knowing eyes.
"Don't you two look cozy," she says, beaming. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"Not at all," Steph lies.
Lottie sets the banana bread on the counter and fixes me with a look. "Kevin, dear, have you heard about that awful man asking questions about Steph?"