Chapter 9 Crewe
NINE
CREWE
The cabin settles around us after dinner like it’s exhaling.
Wind shoulders the walls. Snow keeps up its quiet assault on the windows. The fire burns down to a steady glow that paints Riley’s face in warm light when she moves through the room, stacking plates, rinsing a fork, trying to pretend her world isn’t on fire.
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.”
My pulse thunders. “This,” I repeat, low.
Her eyes flick to my mouth again. “Stop acting like you don’t know what I mean.”
I give her one last out. “Riley… tell me to stop.”
She swallows. “Don’t.”
That’s all it takes.
I cup her jaw and kiss her.
The first contact is soft—barely there—like I’m tasting the question before I take the answer. Her lips part with a quiet sound that hits me straight in the gut, and then the restraint I’ve been holding for days cracks like thin ice.
I deepen the kiss.
Riley makes a small, helpless noise and leans into me, hands sliding up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt like she’s anchoring herself.
Like I’m anchoring her.
Heat rolls through me, steady and consuming. I slide my hand to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, and she shivers—full body, unmistakable.
Her mouth is warm. Soft. Hungry in a way that turns my thoughts into smoke.
I pull back just enough to breathe, our foreheads touching.
Her eyes are half-lidded, lips swollen.
“You okay?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods quickly. “Yes.”
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s not enough,” she whispers.
Christ.
I kiss her again, slower this time, letting it build. Letting her feel what I’m doing. Letting her feel that I’m not just taking—I'm paying attention.
Her hands slide around my neck, her fingers cool against my skin. She presses closer, and my body responds instantly, hard and sharp with want.
I force myself to keep it controlled. Keep it safe. Keep it about her.
My thumb strokes her jaw. My other hand moves down her back, palm spanning her waist. She’s small, but she feels perfect in my arms, like she was built to fit here.
She breaks the kiss to breathe, lips brushing mine with each inhale. “This is a really inconvenient time,” she murmurs.
I huff a quiet laugh against her mouth. “You’re telling me.”
“Like… bad guys. Threats. My destroyed lab.”
“Yeah.”
“And yet,” she whispers, dragging her lips along my jaw, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
My eyes close for a second. That does something to me I don’t have language for.
I turn my head and kiss the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then the spot just below her ear. Her breath hitches, her fingers tightening in my shirt.
“Crewe,” she whispers, voice breaking.
I pause. Pull back enough to look at her.
Her pupils are blown wide. Her cheeks flushed. She looks like she’s burning from the inside out—and still, she’s steady. Present.
“Say it,” I murmur. “What do you want?”
Her gaze flickers. She’s nervous and vulnerable. Then she lifts her chin. “I want you to kiss me like you’ve been thinking about it all day.”
A low sound slips out of me before I can stop it. “I have,” I confess.
“And I want,” she continues, voice soft but brave, “to feel safe for one second without having to be strong.”
My chest tightens so hard it hurts. I pull her into my lap, careful and slow, giving her time to decide. She comes willingly, straddling me, hands braced on my shoulders like she’s afraid she might float away if she doesn’t hold on.
Her warmth sinks into me.
My hands settle at her hips, firm but restrained. “Riley,” I say, voice gone gravel. “You are safe.”
Her eyes go glossy. “Say it again,” she whispers.
“You’re safe.”
She leans down and kisses me like she believes it.
This time it’s not careful.
It’s need.
She kisses me with everything she’s been holding back—fear, adrenaline, loneliness, stubborn hope. Her mouth moves against mine, deep and wet and desperate, and I meet her, matching her rhythm, keeping her close, keeping her grounded.
I slide one hand up her spine, fingers spreading between her shoulder blades. The other cups her thigh, feeling the soft skin there, the way she trembles when I touch her like she’s not used to being handled with reverence.
She rocks against me without thinking, and my control slips another notch.
I break the kiss with a groan, pressing my forehead to hers. “Riley,” I warn, voice ragged. “If we keep going like this…”
Her breath is hot against my mouth. “Then what?”
I swallow hard. “Then I’m going to want more than I should take tonight.”
She studies me—searching, serious.
Then her fingers brush my cheek. “You’re not taking,” she whispers. “I’m choosing.”
That knocks the air out of me.
I kiss her again—slower, deeper, savoring. My hands move with purpose now: a thumb tracing the curve of her hip, fingers sliding under the hem of her hoodie just enough to feel the warmth of her skin at her waist.
She shivers, breaking the kiss with a soft gasp.
“Okay?” I ask immediately.
“Yes,” she breathes, and her hands slide into my hair, tugging gently like she’s learning what I like.
I let out a low sound, and she smiles—small and triumphant.
“That,” she murmurs, “was a very satisfying noise.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I mutter, kissing her mouth again.