Chapter Nine #3
Her brown eyes flick down to my mouth and back up again. It’s fast, but I catch it.
I wonder if she catches me catching it.
“Maybe you’re the one making it hard,” she says softly.
My body reacts before my mind does. Heat, and tension. A dangerous pull low in my stomach that has no business showing up in the middle of an argument.
I tilt my head. “You should stop talking like that.”
“Why?”
Because if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to forget why I’m angry.
Because I don’t know whether I want to kiss you or throw you out of my life before you get any deeper in it, and both options feel equally possible right now.
I let out a breath. “Because I’m trying very fucking hard to remember I’m pissed at you right now.”
That does something to her expression. Not quite a smile, just a crack in the tension.
“Are you?” she asks stepping closer as she tucks her hair behind her ear.
“Yes.”
“And how is that going for you?”
I stare at her for a second, then bark out a short laugh despite myself. “Not great if I’m honest.”
That earns me the tiniest real smile I’ve seen from her since this started, and it hits me low and hard.
Goddamn. Too pretty and way to fucking easy to want.
I harden my voice before the moment can turn.
“This doesn’t mean I’m over it.”
Her smile fades. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I said I know.”
I study her for a second, weighing what I can allow, what I can’t. My instinct is still to protect the team first, ask questions later. That doesn’t change because of who her brothers are. It doesn’t change because I want her in ways that are quickly becoming inconvenient.
But my tone shifts anyway.
Softer. Not by much. Just enough that I know she hears it.
The wind picks up and she shivers, just slightly, even though she tries to play it off.
I look at her for half a second, then step in and pull her against me before I can think better of it.
She goes still.
I lower my mouth toward her ear, one hand settling firm at her back. “C’mere. You’re freezing, and I’m basically always warm. One of my better qualities.”
A soft sound leaves her—half laugh, half breath, and then her arms come around my waist, slower this time, like she’s giving herself permission to stop pretending she doesn’t want the contact.
I hold her there, race suit still hanging at my hips, tank damp from the track, her body fitting against mine in a way that feels a little too right for two people who should probably still be arguing.
It should feel awkward after everything we just said, but it doesn't. Instead it feels like the first honest thing either of us has done all evening.
I can feel the tension going out of her by inches.
The way she leans in a little more. The way her forehead settles against my chest like she’s tired enough to stop performing for a minute.
My hand slides once, slow and absent, up the middle of her back before settling there again, and when I feel her breathe me in, something in my chest tightens hard enough to matter.
Because there it is.
That thing, still there under the anger, suspicion and all the reasons this should be a bad idea.
She feels it too. I know she does. I can tell in the way she holds on to me, in the way she doesn’t make a joke out of it, in the way the silence between us stops feeling sharp and starts feeling like something else entirely.
For a minute, neither of us says anything. The wind moves around us, catching the ends of her hair. The garage hums behind us. Somewhere out in the street, a car passes, tires hissing over pavement.
Then, muffled against me, she says, “So what now?”
I look down at her, still tucked against me, and exhale slowly.
Now what.
Now I should probably step back. Put some distance back between us. Remember all the reasons this is complicated and messy and not something I should be feeding.
Instead, I keep my arms where they are.
“Now,” I say, voice low, “We get you home.”
She tips her head back just enough to look up at me, and there’s something in her face that almost knocks the breath out of me.
Something soft that says she heard what I actually meant.
Not go home.
Let me take care of that.
Her fingers tighten once in the back of my suit. Small movement but fucking loud as hell.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says, but there’s no real fight in it this time.
“Yeah,” I murmur, brushing my thumb once along her spine. “I know.”
That lands between us too.
Because that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?
I know I don’t have to, but I fucking want to.
“Okay,” she says.
And Christ, that one word feels like trust.
I nod once, not trusting myself with much more than that, then finally ease back just enough to look at her properly without letting her go completely.
“Alright lets get out of her,” I say, softer now. This time, when she smiles, there’s no hesitation in it, and that’s what stays with me as I turn with her back toward the garage.
Not the argument, or the anger.
Just the fact that when I pulled her in, she held on.
And worse—
I didn’t want to fucking let her go.