20. 20 Tori
20: Tori
Ryder turned out to be more of a prince charming than I ever thought possible. And not the cheesy, Disney kind. The dark, brooding, might-actually-kill-a-guy-for-you kind. He didn’t just meet me halfway—he gave up a piece of himself, pulling back parts of his darker nature for my sake. I never should’ve asked him to. The guilt coils in my chest every time I think about it, squeezing tighter every night I lie awake replaying it in my head. But after what Nico did to me, ropes and restraints lost their allure, and I couldn’t stomach the thought of pretending they didn’t.
There was a flicker of doubt in me, though—a small, gnawing voice whispering he wouldn’t give me what I needed. That maybe, for all his bravado, Ryder wouldn’t be able to change. But he did. He did it without hesitation, without resentment, and that’s how I know—with time—we’ll find our way back to what we had.
I’ve tamed the monster. Or maybe he tamed himself for me.
It’s been a week since Diablo threw me his gang like a blood-soaked olive branch and put Juan at my side as an ally. And Juan hasn’t wasted a second proving his worth. The intel he brings—pieced together through fake allegiances and carefully spun lies—paints a vivid picture of Nico’s schemes. It’s unnerving how good Diablo is at playing the game, and for the first time, I wonder if I’m more my father’s daughter than I care to admit.
Nico’s gone quiet over the last few days, and the silence feels more dangerous than any threat. The tension in the house is suffocating. Every creak of the floorboards has me tense, ready to bite whatever hand tries to grab me from the shadows. Any figure at the edge of my vision sends my pulse racing.
You’re such a pussycat, Tori.
I remind myself over and over that Nico can’t touch me here. This place is a fortress, locked down tighter than my paranoia. But try telling that to the anxious part of my brain, the one that refuses to believe logic, the part that keeps me wide-eyed and rigid most nights. I’ve started asking one of the guys to stay close—on the bed, within arm’s reach. They take turns, but none of them are willing to share the space after what happened last time.
Ryder’s reaction to waking up spooning Blaze was priceless. I laughed so hard I cried, but apparently, the trauma of the incident was enough to put a permanent stop to group sleepovers.
Their stubbornness wears on me more than I expected. I didn’t realize how lonely it would feel, this constant ache of knowing they won’t all stay with me.
Focus, Tori. You’ll have plenty of time to be their freak in the sheets after Nico’s rotting in the ground.
I shake the thought away, forcing myself to focus on Juan as he lays out the latest intel. His dark eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching, as he spreads the papers across the table.
“We checked the asylum last night,” Juan says, his voice clipped. “It’s been cleared out. A few scraps were left behind—nothing useful. My guess? Nico knows your father’s out of his corner and bolts. Rats always run when their tails get caught.”
The edge in his tone is impossible to miss. His frustration is simmering just below the surface, and I catch the faint tick in his jaw as he delivers the news. Nico’s cowardice grates on him. For someone like Juan—a man built on honor and respect—Nico’s slimy, underhanded ways are a slap in the face.
Juan crosses his arms, his hulking frame a wall of determination. If intimidation were an Olympic event, he’d already have the gold. “The way I see it, we’re going hunting.” His gaze locks on mine, dark and steady, the weight of his words hitting me like a hammer. “Diablo’s willing to send a good portion of his men to help. We’ll hit Nico where it hurts—his casino, his drug deals, and the trafficking ring. All of it. One coordinated strike.”
Juan’s declaration hangs in the air, heavy with finality. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing in his tone. He means business. And while part of me appreciates his confidence, the enormity of the task looms like a storm cloud overhead. It’s one thing to fantasize about destroying Nico’s empire; it’s another to see the blueprint laid out in front of me.
I glance at Ryder, who—unsurprisingly—looks entirely too relaxed for a conversation about dismantling a criminal empire. He leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “Oh, is that all? And here I thought you were going to ask for something difficult, like stealing his favorite chair.”
Keagan snorts from the couch, where he’s sprawled out like he owns the place. Because he does. “You’re assuming he even uses a chair. Pretty sure he just balances on the stick up his ass.”
Despite the tension in the room, the corner of my mouth twitches. I’d only met Keagan earlier this week, but I already find him wildly entertaining. He’s the kind of guy who could make you laugh in a burning building, cracking jokes as the ceiling collapses around him. Watching him and Ryder together is like seeing two sides of the same chaotic coin—equal parts ridiculous and infuriating. And yet, I can’t help but feel a little lighter with them around. It’s easier to laugh than admit that the idea of going back to Nico’s territory makes my chest feel like it’s caving in.
Blaze leans forward, all focus and business, a sharp contrast to the chaos around him. “The casino is the center of everything. It funds his entire operation. If we take that out first, the rest of his empire crumbles.”
It’s a good plan—logical, precise, and so very Blaze. That’s just how his mind works, always calculating, always three steps ahead. His ability to break things down into strategies and numbers is as impressive as it is frustrating. It’s also comforting in a way, knowing he’s already solving problems before we even get to them. But before I can nod in agreement, Thorne speaks up.
“We burn the place to the ground,” Thorne says, his voice low and unyielding. “But only when we know for sure Nico’s there. We can spare some casualties.”
I stiffen, his words cutting deeper than they should. This isn’t the Thorne I know. Until now, he’s sat back, let Blaze take the lead, and always reigned things in when they went too far. But this? This is something else entirely. He's the one going too far. There’s a darkness in him, something I haven’t seen before. What unsettles me more is that I don’t mind it as much as I probably should—maybe because it’s not directed at me. Or maybe because it’s exactly what Nico deserves.
Blaze’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Keagan, however, lets out a mock shudder. “You know, Thorne, you have this incredible talent for making perfectly good ideas sound terrifying.”
Thorne’s lips curve into what might be a smile. “Terrifying works.”
And he’s right. Terrifying does work. But that doesn’t make it any easier to watch the shadows in him crawl to the surface.
I open my mouth to argue, but Ryder’s hand brushes mine. The touch is light, but it grounds me enough to stop me from exploding. His voice softens just enough to pull me back. “We’ve got this, Tori. Just let us handle it.”
Let them handle it. The words claw at my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. This isn’t their fight—it’s mine. Nico didn’t do this to them. He didn’t break them. I want them to teach me, to let me stand shoulder-to-shoulder with them so I can carve my pound of flesh from Nico myself.
Sitting on the sidelines?
Not an option.
Ryder’s hand brushes mine again, and this time, I pull back, fixing him with a glare that says exactly how I feel about being benched. Ryder, being Ryder, quickly raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “I mean, that’s what I would’ve said in the past. Now? Now I’m saying, what weapon would you like, Kitkat?”
My glare softens despite myself, and I roll my eyes. “The sharpest one you’ve got.”
Ryder winks, leaning in just enough to lower his voice. “Oh, that's sexy. Don't worry, Kitkat. I'll get you the sharpest one in your favorite color.” He's grinning from ear to ear as he leans in to whisper. “Blue.”
The corner of my lips twitch upward, but before I can fire back, Rick interrupts, finally peeling his attention away from his laptop. “I can coordinate the hits. Surveillance, comms, all of it. No need for—”
“Diablo’s tech guy can help with that,” Juan cuts him off, garnering a well-deserved glare from Rick, who's grown as stiff as a board.
Oh boy. Here we go.
What I’ve learned in my week with Rick is that he runs on caffeine, sarcasm, and a healthy dose of ego. And the thing about egos? They’re fragile as hell. If you even hint that someone might be better than him at something, you’ll never hear the end of it.
“ Help? ” Rick snaps, standing so fast his chair screeches against the floor. His glare sharpens as he crosses his arms. “What, you think I can’t handle this?”
Juan, calm as ever, meets Rick’s death glare without flinching. “It’s not about what you can handle. It’s about making sure everything runs smoothly.”
Rick’s scoff is so loud I’m surprised it doesn’t echo. “Let me guess—this guy thinks he’s some kind of genius? I bet he doesn’t even know the difference between JavaScript and Python.”
Ryder chuckles from his spot against the table, his smirk stretching even wider. “What’s the matter, Rick? Afraid Diablo’s guy is going to out-nerd you?”
Rick whips his glare toward Ryder. “I’d like to see him try.”
Before Rick can really ramp up, Juan’s steady, no-nonsense tone slices through the tension. “This isn’t about ego. It’s about execution. Diablo’s guy will focus on coordinating my men. Rick, you’ll focus on yours . I don’t care who’s better at what. What I care about is ensuring Nico doesn’t slip through our fingers.”
I glance at Rick, half-expecting him to launch into a long-winded rant about amateurs or insult Juan’s lineage, but instead, he flops back into his chair with a dramatic huff. His arms cross again as he mutters something about “idiots wasting time,” but at least he’s not yelling anymore.
Crisis averted—for now.
Juan leans forward, his sharp gaze scanning the map spread across the table. He points to a spot in the center of the grid, tapping it for emphasis. “As you know—and have experienced—there’s heavy security both outside and inside Nico’s casino. The staff doubles as muscle, and cameras cover every corner. If we’re going to take it, we’ll need a major distraction to draw his attention elsewhere.”
“What kind of distraction?” I ask, even though I already have a sinking feeling I’m going to regret it.
This plan sounds way too familiar for my liking.
Deja-fucking-vu
Before Juan can answer, Ryder’s voice cuts in, smug as ever. “Something explosive. Cars, trucks, maybe a building or two—enough to make Nico send his men scrambling.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to decide if he’s joking. “Explosive? You mean literal fire and brimstone?”
“If it works,” Thorne says simply, his dark eyes locking onto mine. His tone is calm, his gaze unflinching, like the idea of blowing up half the block doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “We want him off-balance.”
Keagan whistles low, leaning back in his chair with an amused grin. “You guys are ready to blow up half the city for the cause. I’m not saying I disagree, but you’ve got to admit, it’s kind of extra.”
Juan exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s already regretting letting Ryder and Keagan into the room. “We’re not leveling a neighborhood,” he says, his voice laced with irritation. “Bombing his labs, however—that’s another story. Nico’s paranoid right now. He’ll react to anything that seems like a threat. He’ll think we’re attacking the casino next and pull his people back to defend it.”
“And while they’re focused there, we hit the trafficking routes,” Blaze adds, his voice steady as he finishes the thought.
Juan nods. “Three teams. Three targets. It has to happen simultaneously.”
Ryder tilts his head, looking far too intrigued for my comfort. “What’s the timing on this? Are we talking precision strikes, or can we play it fast and loose?”
“Precision,” Juan says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “If one team goes in early, Nico will catch on. He’s slippery enough as it is. We can’t give him time to react.”
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms as I take it all in. The plan is ambitious—maybe too ambitious. And no matter how logical it sounds on paper, it leaves me swirling with memories I’d rather forget. Blaze bleeding out, Nico throwing me over his shoulder like I was nothing, and the utter chaos that followed.
“Who’s on which team?” I ask, my voice steady, even as my mind fights to stay in the present.
Blaze speaks first. “All of Diablo’s men will be split into our groups. Ryder, Keagan, and I will take the casino. Thorne can lead the team at the labs, with Rick hanging back to coordinate it all. He knows how to deal with that kind of operation.” His voice is steady, but there’s a subtle edge when he glances at Thorne, as if to say Don’t take it too far. “Juan, you and your guys will oversee the trafficking team. Tori…” He hesitates, his gaze flicking to me. “You’re with us at the casino.”
“No.” The word leaves my mouth before I can think better of it. All eyes turn to me, but I hold my ground. “I want the trafficking team.”
Juan shakes his head. “You’re the target Nico wants most. Putting you there makes everyone more vulnerable.”
“That’s exactly why I should go,” I argue. “If Nico’s looking for me, he’ll focus on that team. It gives the other two groups a better shot.”
Not to mention, I never want to step foot in that casino again.
Ryder leans closer, his voice low and calm, but there’s an edge of warning beneath it. “We’re not using you as bait, Kitkat.”
“I’m not bait,” I snap. “I’m a distraction. There’s a difference.”
Blaze clears his throat, cutting through the tension. “Tori, I understand where you’re coming from, but you’re more valuable at the casino. That’s where Nico’s most likely to be.”
“And what happens if he’s not there?” I counter. “What happens if he’s at the trafficking site, using those people as leverage?”
Silence. Blaze doesn’t answer, but the flicker of doubt in his eyes tells me I’ve hit a nerve.
Juan speaks up, his voice calm but firm. “If Nico’s at the trafficking site, we’ll deal with him. The priority is shutting down his operation, not putting you in unnecessary danger.”
The room buzzes with tension, but I bite back my retort. They’ve made up their minds, and pushing harder will only make them dig their heels in deeper.
Fine, but this argument isn't over, boys.
I'm getting my way.
“So, we’re doing this,” Keagan says, breaking the silence with a grin. “We’re taking out a casino, a lab, and a trafficking ring all in one night. No pressure.”
Rick rolls his eyes. “If you mess up my timing, Keagan, I swear—”
“Relax, Rick,” Keagan interrupts. “I’ll make sure to follow your precious clockwork. Can’t have the tech guy having a meltdown mid-mission.”
Ryder chuckles, but Blaze brings the conversation back to focus. “We move in three days. Juan, finalize the logistics with Diablo’s men. Rick, get me schematics for all three sites. Thorne, make a list of supplies the teams will need. And Tori…” He pauses, his expression softening. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
Rest. The idea feels foreign, almost laughable. But I nod anyway, filing it away with the rest of the things I can’t control. Three days. Three days to prepare for a fight I’ve been dreaming about.
This is it. Nico doesn’t know it yet, but his empire is about to burn, and I’ll be the one with the match.
Later that night, the house is finally quiet, but my brain isn’t. It’s like a hamster on an espresso bender, running circles around every plan we’ve made, finding holes in every detail. I should be exhausted, but instead, I’m standing here in my bathrobe, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I managed to end up in a revenge thriller with a cast of borderline pyromaniacs.
I shuffle into the bathroom because, at this point, a bath is the only thing standing between me and a total meltdown. The water is hot enough to sting as I sink in, steam rising in soft curls around me. The heat seeps into my muscles, and I almost convince myself I might sleep tonight. I lean back, close my eyes, and let the silence settle. For once, my hamster brain starts to slow.
Then there’s a knock.
Of course there’s a knock.
“Unless you’re here to drown me, I’m busy,” I call, my voice dripping with enough sarcasm to scare off anyone.
“It’s me,” Thorne says, his voice soft but steady, the way it always is when he’s testing the waters.
My chest tightens instinctively. It always does when it’s him. Because it’s Thorne. And Thorne has this way of making me feel like I’m completely exposed, like he can see every crack, every secret I’ve ever tried to hide. It’s terrifying in a way I’ll never admit out loud.
He'd get too full of himself if he knew.
“It’s open,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.
The door creaks as he steps inside, his expression calm but unreadable. He’s holding a small black bag and a Bluetooth speaker, setting them on the counter like it’s a perfectly normal thing to bring into someone else’s bathroom.
“What’s with the bag?” I ask, watching him kneel next to the tub.
“Relaxation kit,” he says simply, his gaze flicking to me like he’s assessing how far I am from completely losing it. “You need it.”
There he is again, reading me like a damn book.
“Do I?” I challenge, though my voice lacks the bite it probably should have.
He doesn’t answer, just unzips the bag and pulls out a lighter, a neatly rolled joint, and something else I don’t bother to look at. He lights the joint, the smoke curling in the air, before passing it to me.
“Here,” he says, his tone firm but not unkind.
I hesitate—not because I don’t want it, but because I don't want to admit that I've never done it before. Still, I take it, inhaling too quickly and coughing like an idiot. His lips twitch, but he doesn’t laugh. He never laughs at me, only with me.
While I recover, he fiddles with the speaker. A few seconds later, the low, haunting rhythm of Sextape by Deftones fills the room. I blink at him, caught off guard.
I sink lower into the water, my chin touching the surface as the memory pulls me under. Thorne and I used to listen to music together all the time, sharing a pair of tangled wired headphones plugged into a cracked iPod Nano we found hidden in the floorboards. We figured it belonged to someone who’d lived in the group home before us, so we never took it outside my room and always put it back when we were done.
This song was our favorite. Maybe because we were just dumb kids who thought the title made us edgy and cool. We’d smirk at each other like we were in on some clever secret. But it wasn’t just the name—the song itself was everything.
Thorne settles back on his heels, his dark eyes watching me in that steady, unblinking way that always makes me feel like he’s seeing right through me. “You used to play it all the time,” he says, his voice soft. “Back in your room. I’d sneak in after lights-out just to hear it.”
I let out a quiet laugh, though the sound catches in my throat. “Yeah. And we thought we were so sneaky with our stolen headphones and shitty iPod. I can’t believe no one ever caught us.”
“They probably did,” he replies, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. “They just didn’t care. It’s not like we were causing trouble.”
That earns a real laugh out of me this time. “Speak for yourself. I seem to remember you constantly daring me to sneak out the window with you. You thought breaking curfew was some rite of passage.”
“It was,” he says, his tone light but his eyes serious. “But you never came.”
I shrug, the water rippling around me. “I liked staying in my room. It felt... safe. Plus, I didn’t need to sneak out. You always came to me.”
His gaze sharpens, something flickering in his expression that makes my chest tighten. He leans forward, his forearms resting on the edge of the tub, close enough that I can feel the air he exhales brush against my wet skin. “You were the only reason I stayed,” he says, his voice low, almost like a confession. “If it weren’t for you, I’d have been gone the first chance I got. I would’ve run away somewhere my dad could never find me.”
My throat tightens, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say. Thorne has always had this way of saying things that hit deeper than I’m ready for, that leave me feeling exposed in a way I don’t entirely hate but don’t know how to handle, either.
“I think about those nights all the time,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “I wonder how different things would’ve been if you wouldn't have had to go back.”
His jaw tightens, the flicker in his eyes darkening into something I can’t quite name. “If I didn’t go back, things might’ve been better for me, but not for you.”
I tilt my head, my brows furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means...” He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “It means I was a mess back then, Tori. You were the only good thing in my life, but I don’t know if that would’ve been enough to stop me from screwing everything up.”
I sit up slightly, the water sloshing around me. “You wouldn’t have screwed anything up. I wish you could have stayed with me rather than have to go back to your shitty-ass father.”
He had told me what it was like to live with his dad one of those nights. Explained how that bastard would drink and take out his frustrations on Thorne. It would always end with “I wish you would have died instead of her,” referring to his mom, who died giving birth to him.
We both know what it's like to not know what a loving parent is like.
The air feels heavier now, and Thorne’s hand dips into the water, his fingers brushing mine beneath the surface. It’s such a small, quiet touch, but it makes my heart race.
“You were the only thing that made leaving hard,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “I didn’t want to go, Tori. But you know I didn’t have a choice.”
“I know,” I say, my voice catching. “But I still hate that you had to.”
For a moment, we just look at each other, feel each other, read each other without a sound. Thorne’s hand stays where it is, his fingers curling lightly around mine like he’s grounding me. Or maybe himself.
“You were the only good thing about that place,” he says finally, his voice rough with something that makes my chest ache.
I swallow hard, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between us. “Likewise,” I whisper, the word carrying every unspoken truth I don’t know how to put into sentences.
The music swells, the low rhythm of Sextape filling the space as we hold each other’s gaze, hands held, breathing even.
While I recover, Thorne takes another drag from the joint, his eyes flicking to the speaker as the music changes. Then, without a word, he sets the joint between my lips and pulls his shirt over his head. I take a drag, inhaling slowly, while my eyes flick up to watch as his inked skin catches the low light of the bathroom.
The sound of his belt sliding free follows, the metal clasp hitting the tile softly. I exhale, the smoke curling into the humid air, and try not to let him notice how closely I’m watching. Not that it matters.
He always notices.
By the time he steps out of his jeans, my gaze is firmly fixed on the rippling water in front of me. I take another slow drag, letting the haze settle over me, and pass the joint to him without looking up. The tub shifts as he climbs in, the water rising slightly, brushing against my arms.
He settles across from me, leaning back against the edge like he belongs there, like he’s always belonged there. His legs brush mine under the water, and I feel it everywhere. He takes the joint, his fingers brushing mine.
Thorne doesn’t rush. He takes a slow drag, his dark eyes steady on mine. There’s no teasing, no smirk, just that look—the one that sees too much, that strips me bare without touching me. It’s the kind of look that makes my chest feel tight and my stomach flip, and I hate how much I love it.
The music changes, the low hum of Mayonaise by Smashing Pumpkins filling the silence. He sets the joint on the edge of the tub, leaning forward slightly, his hand disappearing under the water. My breath catches when his fingers skim my knee, light but deliberate.
“You’re tense,” he says, his voice low but not soft. It’s steady, like everything else about him.
“Am I?” My attempt at sarcasm falls flat, the words catching in my throat when his thumb moves in slow circles, the heat of his touch radiating even under the water.
“Don't worry. I'm here to help with that,” he murmurs, his gaze locked on mine.
His hand slides higher, stopping just above my thigh. He leans in as his lips brush against mine, soft and careful.
I tilt my head, letting him deepen the kiss, my hands moving instinctively to his shoulders. The water shifts as I move closer, straddling his lap, and his hands find my waist, steadying me. His lips trail from my mouth to my jaw, his breath warm against my skin, and I shiver despite the heat.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, his lips brushing against the corner of my neck.
“Maybe,” I manage, my voice shaky. My fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as his hands slide up my back, leaving warmth in their wake.
His mouth moves back to mine, and this time, the kiss is deeper, more insistent. His hands tighten on my waist, pulling me closer, and I let him, melting into him like I’m something made to fit against him. Everything about this—about him—feels different, like I'm committing to something deeper than what we already have.
That's cause he's not going to fuck you, Tori.
He's going to make love to you.
“You’re everything,” he whispers against my lips, his words heavy with something I don’t have a name for.
I pull back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, full of emotions he doesn’t say out loud, and it hits me in the chest like a punch I didn’t see coming. “You are too,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
His hands slide down, steadying me as he shifts, his body fitting against mine like it’s the only place we were ever meant to be. His touch settles me in a way that makes the world outside this moment feel small and far away.
Slowly, gently, he lifts me just enough to position himself, and then he’s sliding into me, inch by inch. I gasp softly, my hands gripping his shoulders as I adjust to the stretch. His grip tightens on my waist, holding me steady, his dark eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing that exists.
He doesn’t move right away, giving me a moment to settle, to adjust, his hands stroking my skin in soothing circles. It’s sweet, achingly so, and it makes me realize just how deeply he cares, how much he holds back because he’s afraid of giving me too much.
But I want it. I want it all .
Slowly, he starts to move, his hips rocking up into mine in a rhythm that feels unhurried but purposeful. Every thrust, every movement, feels like he’s saying something he doesn’t know how to put into words, and it’s almost too much.
My hands slide into his hair, pulling him closer as his lips find mine again. The kiss is soft and desperate all at once, like he’s trying to pour everything he feels into it, and I let him, meeting him with everything I have. His hands roam over my body, his touch igniting sparks everywhere he lingers, and I feel myself melting into him, losing myself in the way he holds me, the way he moves with me.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice breaking slightly, and the raw emotion in it makes my heart ache.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck, my breath hitching as his pace quickens just slightly. The water ripples around us, the heat wrapping around our bodies like a cocoon, but all I can focus on is him—on the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s holding me like I’m something fragile but vital.
“I love you,” I whisper, the words spilling out before I can stop them, but I don’t regret it.
I mean it. I’ve always meant it.
He freezes for a moment, his eyes searching mine, and then his lips crash against mine in a kiss so intense it steals the rest of the air from my lungs. “I love you too,” he breathes, his voice rough and full of everything he’s never been able to say before.
He holds me tighter, his movements growing deeper, more deliberate, until I feel like I’m unraveling, like every part of me is tangled up in him.
When the moment comes, it’s not rushed or frantic. It’s soft, quiet, the kind of thing that stays with you long after it’s over. He buries his face in my neck, his arms wrapping around me as we ride the waves together, the tension breaking and leaving only warmth in its wake.
For a while, neither of us moves, the only sound the soft hum of the music and the faint lapping of the water around us. Thorne’s hands stroke my back, his lips brushing my temple in a gesture so gentle it makes my chest ache all over again.
“You mean everything to me,” he whispers again, and this time, I don’t feel the weight of the words. I feel the truth of them.
“You do too,” I reply, pressing a kiss to his jaw before resting my forehead against his. And for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly as it should. At least for a moment.