She kissed him like nobody else was in the room.
Then laughed like she knew it’d ruin him.

And it did.
Spectacularly.

Tyler was screwed. He knew it. Knew it somewhere deep in his chest — right where she’d tucked herself in close, all soft mouth and sharper wit and that impossible little smile she tried to play off like it didn’t gut him every single time.

He still hadn’t recovered from her thumb on his lip — all slow and smug and casually lethal — when she kissed him again.

And then again.

And then called him a show-off with her lips still against his.

God. Ellie Rae Tate was a menace.
And she was his menace.

He barely heard the bar anymore — didn’t care. Couldn’t think past the way she fit against him like she belonged there, hoodie strings curled in her fist, her laugh ghosting across his cheek like it had any right to make him feel like this.

She told him to put her down — right after whispering that she didn’t hate it.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t even try.

Because her fingers were in his hair and her mouth tasted like victory and whatever lip gloss she was wearing tonight, and if he died right here, lifted like a dumbass trophy in the middle of a dive bar slow-dance?

Fine. Worth it.

Still, he huffed out a breath — soft, crooked, already smiling — and eased her back down, hands sliding from her waist just slow enough to make her shiver.

“Can’t have you accusing me of manslaughter and stealing your spotlight,” he murmured, voice low, still breathless. “Trying to be a respectful menace over here.”

He didn’t step back.
Not even an inch.

Because her forehead was still pressed against his. Her grin still flickering like firelight. And every inch of him wanted to memorize it — the way she looked when she was trying not to blush but failing anyway. The way her hand stayed at the back of his neck like she didn’t want to lose her grip on him.

“You know,” he added, leaning in like it was a secret, “I’d say you’re playing a dangerous game…”

A beat. His nose brushed hers.

“…But if the prize is your lip gloss and your ego in my hoodie pocket, I’ll take the risk.”

He tilted his head just enough to kiss the corner of her mouth again — lazy, grinning, full of unspoken things he wasn’t ready to say out loud yet.

Then he pulled back an inch — just one.
Enough to look her in the eye, to make sure she heard every word.

“You look good here, Ellie Rae.”
Soft smile.
Wrecked voice.
“You feel good here. With me.”

Another beat.
Another breath.

“…And you really think I’m the show-off?”

That grin was back now — all teeth and trouble — and he stepped away just far enough to tug her hand into his again, lacing their fingers like it was habit.

“Come on,” he said, cocking his head toward the counter. “I’m getting you another drink before you kiss me unconscious.”

A pause. He turned back with a wink.

“Unless that’s the plan. In which case… fair warning, Tate. You’re hella close.”

And he led her through the bar like he hadn’t just announced to every ex and onlooker in a three-mile radius that he was hers.

Because he was.
No question.
No apology.
No curtain to hide behind.

Just Ellie.
And him.
And the lip gloss he was never wiping off.

Ellie’s smile tilted, slow and wicked, as his words brushed against her skin. Her fingers stayed at the back of his neck, nails grazing lightly over his hairline, feeling the tremor under his skin when he said he was trying to be a “respectful menace.”

“Respectful?” she whispered, nose brushing his as she leaned in, her voice soft but loaded with tease. “Since when has that ever been your brand?”

He murmured about a “dangerous game” and her lip gloss being the prize. She tilted her head, eyes glinting under the dim lights. “You’re only saying that because you’re winning,” she shot back, thumb brushing under his jaw like she was checking for proof. “And because you like the taste.”

When he kissed the corner of her mouth again, she let her eyes fall closed, savoring it for a second longer than she should’ve. Then she smirked against him, voice lower now, honest without losing its edge. “For the record,” she breathed, tugging the hem of his hoodie tighter around herself, “I’m not giving this back. You look better watching me wear it anyway.”

He pulled back an inch, called her by her full name, told her she looked good here. She tried to keep the blush at bay but knew it was a losing battle. “Don’t get sappy on me, Harrison,” she murmured, eyes darting away for a second before sliding back to his. “I only kissed you like that to make the puck bunnies cry.”

He grinned, accused her of calling him a show-off. She rolled her eyes, but her thumb traced his lower lip again like she couldn’t stop herself. “I said it ‘cause it’s true,” she said softly. “But if I’m gonna be the prize at the end of your little show, you better start working harder.”

He laced their fingers and tugged her toward the counter, talking about getting her another drink before she kissed him unconscious. She laughed — warm, low, a little dangerous. “Kiss you unconscious?” she repeated, stepping close enough that the hem of his hoodie brushed her bare thighs. “Sweetheart, that’s not even my final form.”

She squeezed his hand once, fingers sliding perfectly into his, then tilted up to press one last, smug kiss to his jaw — slow and sweet enough to ruin him all over again.

“Fair warning right back,” she whispered against his skin. “You’re already halfway gone.”

Then she tugged him toward the bar, her hips swaying just enough to make sure the puck bunnies saw it, his hoodie draped over her like a trophy. She tossed a glance over her shoulder, eyes sparkling, grin carved sharp and satisfied.

“Come on, Harrison,” she called, voice light but carrying. “Let’s get that drink. And then maybe I’ll finish what I started.”

She tugged his hoodie tighter around her like it was war paint — like she knew exactly what she was doing.
And hell if that didn’t do something to him.

Tyler blinked. Once. Twice. Like maybe he could reboot whatever part of his brain had just short-circuited from the way she said “Sweetheart, that’s not even my final form.”

Jesus.

Was she trying to kill him?
Because if so — well played.
Call the coroner. Leave the body.

He followed, obviously. Like a man with zero self-preservation and even less chill.

And yeah, okay — he clocked the way the girls by the jukebox were still watching, their fake lashes fluttering with all the force of a thousand unbothered lies. But it didn’t matter. Not when Ellie was right there, walking like she owned the place. Wearing his hoodie. Looking back at him like he was already hers.

He was.
He’d been hers.

But still — he couldn’t not be him.

So when she tossed that last line over her shoulder — “Let’s get that drink. And then maybe I’ll finish what I started.” — he caught up, leaned in close behind her, and murmured at her ear with a grin he knew was trouble.

“Oh, maybe?” he echoed, voice low, laced with a laugh. “Babe, you kiss me like that and steal my hoodie and think I’m not gonna follow you around like a golden retriever with a nicotine addiction?”

He caught the glint in her eye as she turned her head slightly, smirk already blooming again, and he leaned just a little closer — not touching, not quite.

“Finish what you started, Tate,” he said, voice dipping, “but don’t act like I didn’t start the whole damn thing when I walked into your life wearing that stupid jersey and asking if you hated me or just thought I was hot.”

A pause.
His grin went full wattage.

“Plot twist. It was both.”

He bumped her hip with his as they reached the counter, all casual affection and unholy glee. “And now look at us,” he added, sliding up beside her, his voice still full of mock-innocence. “Public displays. Emotional terrorism. Hoodie theft. It’s getting serious, Ellie Rae. Gonna have to update my relationship status from ‘committed to the bit’ to just ‘committed.’”

Then — because he couldn’t not — he leaned in again and brushed his mouth against the corner of hers like it was muscle memory now.

“Still think I’m losing?” he whispered, lips barely touching her skin.

He pulled back just enough to catch the look in her eyes — the one that always landed somewhere between flirt and feral — and he bit back a groan.

God, she was gonna ruin him.
And he was gonna thank her for it.

So he turned to the bartender, tossed out her drink order like he’d known it for years, and added, “And whatever’s strong enough to keep up with her.”

His arm slung easily over her shoulders, drawing her in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then — mouth at her temple, words just for her — he murmured:

“Careful, Tate. You keep kissing me like that in public, and I’m gonna start thinking I’m special or something.”

And when she looked up at him — smug, radiant, with that little I dare you fire in her smile —

He was gone.

No maybe.
No halfway.
No pretending.

Gone.

Ellie looked up at him, hoodie sleeves pushed to her palms, eyes catching the amber bar light like it was conspiring with her. For a second, she didn’t say anything — just smiled, that slow, dangerous kind that always came right before she said something that’d wreck him.

“You really think I didn’t know what I was doing?” she murmured, tilting her head toward him with a soft laugh. “You hand me your hoodie, you look at me like that, and then act surprised when I wear it better than you ever did? Please.”

When he threw that “golden retriever with a nicotine addiction” line, she snorted, shaking her head. “You say that like I don’t like being followed,” she said, voice low, teasing. “Face it, Harrison — you’d chase me anywhere.”

He leaned in closer, whispering about starting it all with that stupid jersey, and she huffed out a small laugh through her nose, the kind that softened into something real. “You mean the night I realized I was completely screwed?” she said, still smiling but quieter now. “Yeah, I remember. You walked in like a cocky idiot, and I told myself I didn’t stand a chance. Turns out I was right — but not in the way I thought.”

Then came that line — “Plot twist. It was both.”
She bit her lip, pretending to think about it, then looked up at him again, a spark catching in her eyes. “Yeah,” she said softly. “And you were just as hot as you were unbearable.”

When he bumped her hip, she bumped him back, effortless, playful. “Committed, huh?” she teased. “Guess I should warn you — I don’t do trial runs.”

Then his mouth brushed the corner of hers, and the smirk she’d been holding gave way to something softer. When he whispered, “Still think I’m losing?” she let her fingers trail along his collar, eyes locked on his.

“Losing?” she echoed. “Tyler Harrison, you’ve been winning since the minute I decided to stop pretending I didn’t love you.”

Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth — light, deliberate — before she leaned in and kissed the spot she’d touched. “Besides,” she murmured, “you talk a big game, but I’m still the one wearing the hoodie.”

Then came that last line, the quiet one — the one he said against her temple. “Careful, Tate. You keep kissing me like that in public, and I’m gonna start thinking I’m special or something.”

Ellie smiled — soft this time, no armor, no bite — and tipped her chin up until her nose brushed his. “You’re supposed to already know you are,” she whispered. “That’s what makes this fun — I don’t have to convince you anymore.”

She stayed there for a heartbeat, just close enough to feel him exhale against her skin, then smiled again — the kind that always came right before she did something impulsive.

“Now shut up and hand me that drink,” she said, voice warm, playful. “Before I remind the whole bar exactly why you’re following me around in the first place.”

Without breaking eye contact, Ellie turned toward the bartender, raising two fingers. “Two Fireball shots,” she said, her grin matching the heat in her voice. “Make ’em generous.”

Tyler arched a brow, smirking.
Ellie just shrugged, tugging his hoodie tighter, eyes glittering. “If we’re burning, we might as well toast to it.”

The bartender slid the shots their way, and she picked one up, handing the other to him without looking away. “To bad ideas,” she said, glass hovering between them. “And the people stupid enough to make them worth it.”

Then she clinked his glass, downed the shot, and leaned in close enough for him to catch the cinnamon still burning on her breath.

“Your move, Harrison,” she whispered, lips curving.

God, this girl.
She didn’t just flirt — she ruined.
Soft voice, sharper grin, cinnamon-laced challenge curled between her teeth like she was born to wreck him in bars like this one.

Tyler took the shot without looking away, letting the burn chase the thrum already low in his chest. His smirk didn’t falter — but damn if it didn’t tremble at the edges, just a little, just for her.

He lowered the glass slow, dramatic, letting the heat settle before leaning in — close enough to steal a breath, close enough to give one back.

“My move?” he murmured, voice low and lazy, all velvet over gravel. “That’s cute, Tate. Real cute.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth for half a second — just enough to make a point — before meeting hers again with that too-confident glint, the one that always danced the line between flirt and confession.

“But see, you’re operating under this dangerous assumption…” he continued, his fingers brushing lightly over the hem of his hoodie still hanging off her like a crown she didn’t ask for but absolutely deserved.

“You think this is a game I want to win.”

A beat. A breath.

His palm found her hip — not possessive, not yet — just a quiet tether, a promise disguised as a touch.

“Babe,” he said, grin curving into something slower, deeper, “I already did the impossible part. I got you to look at me like that.”

He let it hang there, that heartbeat of silence, as if to say: yeah, that look — the one you don’t give just anyone.

Then, almost too casually, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear like he had every right to.

“And the hoodie?” he added, cocking his head. “You can keep it. Honestly, you could take every damn one I own. Because seeing you in it? That’s like… bonus points for a life I already won.”

He kissed the spot her thumb had just touched — right at the corner of his mouth — then leaned back just enough to watch her reaction, smug and soft, like he was already memorizing it.

“Still think I’d chase you anywhere, Tate?” he said, thumb brushing the side of her wrist, anchoring her. “Nah. I’m already exactly where I wanna be.”

Then he picked up her empty shot glass and set it down beside his own, fingers still brushing hers.

“Let ‘em stare,” he said, voice low, sure. “Let ‘em wonder how I pulled it off.”

He dipped his head again, this time toward her ear, and whispered, “Spoiler alert: you let me.”

Then — impossibly gentle — he kissed just beneath her jaw, slow enough to leave a blueprint of his mouth against her skin. When he pulled back, the look on his face was all trouble and reverence.

“You burn real pretty, Ellie Rae,” he said. “Let’s toast to that next.”

And yeah — maybe he was completely gone.

But at least he was burning with her.

Ellie met every line with that same unflinching calm that always made him blink first.

When he said my move? That’s cute, she tilted her head, eyes catching the amber light, a smirk ghosting her mouth. “Cute’s not the word you’ll be using when I’m done with you,” she murmured, voice soft enough to be a dare.

When he accused her of making a dangerous assumption, she leaned in just slightly, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “Dangerous assumptions built this, Harrison,” she said, her tone somewhere between teasing and truth. “Don’t start getting cautious now.”

His hand brushed her hip and she didn’t move away — if anything, she swayed closer, like gravity had opinions. “You call it impossible,” she said quietly, looking up at him, “but I’ve been looking at you like this for years. You were just too busy being golden boy to notice.”

He tucked her hair behind her ear, and she laughed under her breath. “And that,” she said, tugging at the hoodie’s sleeve, “is exactly why I’m keeping this. Consider it a late trade for that letterman jacket you wouldn’t lend anyone.”

Then he kissed the corner of her mouth — the smallest thing, the kind of kiss that could’ve gone unnoticed if her entire body hadn’t betrayed her.

When he said still think I’d chase you anywhere, she smiled, something tender creeping in where all the wit used to live. “You didn’t have to chase me, Ty,” she whispered. “You just had to turn around.”

He said let ‘em stare, and she did — quick glance, sly grin. “Oh, they are,” she said, eyes sliding back to his. “And they’re dying about it.”

When he leaned close and murmured spoiler alert: you let me, she laughed once, low and quiet, shaking her head. “I didn’t let you,” she said, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “You just finally caught up to the part where I already had.”

He kissed her just beneath the jaw, slow enough that it made her forget how to finish a sentence. For a moment, her breath hitched, and then she smiled, small and certain.

When he called her pretty when she burned, she grinned, eyes soft but steady. “Guess it’s a good thing you’ve always liked playing with fire.”

Yeah.
He was gone.
Fully, undeniably, certifiably gone.
And she knew it — worse, she was smiling about it.

Ellie Tate, in his hoodie, with his name practically stitched into the air around her, looking at him like she was the one who'd let him win. Like this whole thing hadn’t been a slow-burn ambush he never saw coming until she already had him on his knees — casually, quietly, with a smirk and a Fireball chaser.

“Cute’s not the word you’ll be using when I’m done with you,” she’d said, soft as sin.

And fuck if he didn’t want to frame that line and hang it above his bed.

He watched her, jaw flexing once as her fingers ghosted over her glass, her voice wrapping around his ribs with that dangerous ease — the kind that made the world around them disappear, one pulse at a time.

“Dangerous assumptions built this,” she’d said. “Don’t start getting cautious now.”

Tyler leaned back half an inch, just enough to rake his eyes over her with the kind of grin that belonged behind velvet ropes or sin confessions. His voice dropped low, husky with heat and full of trouble.

“Ellie Rae, cautious was never in my playbook,” he murmured, head tilting. “Not when it came to you.”

She said she’d been looking at him like this for years. That part hit different — all quiet wreckage in his chest.

Golden boy.
Too busy. Too dumb. Too late.

Well, not anymore.

His thumb ghosted the inside of her wrist as she tugged the hoodie sleeve down like it belonged to her — and hell, maybe it did. She mentioned his old letterman, and he snorted softly, leaning in like he had a secret.

“Only reason I never lent that jacket out?” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers, “Was ‘cause I was holding out for the girl who’d steal the whole damn hoodie.”

Then she said the line.
You didn’t have to chase me. You just had to turn around.

Tyler Harrison was not a sentimental man.
He was cocky. Loud. Built for locker room noise and highlight reels.
But that? That one line?
It settled into his chest like it belonged there.

“You say shit like that,” he muttered, forehead resting lightly against hers, “and you wonder why I’m out here planning entire futures around you.”

She smirked — that lethal, dimpled little smirk — and said the others were staring.

Good.
Let ‘em.

“Let ‘em die mad about it,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to the corner of her mouth. “You’re mine. They can read it in the box score.”

When she said he didn’t win her — that he caught up — Tyler’s grin curled slow and crooked.

“Plot twist number two,” he murmured, voice close enough to tangle with her breath. “I like the way you rig the game.”

Then she smiled again — soft, bright, infuriating — and when she said it was a good thing he liked fire, he leaned in close, lips brushing the edge of her grin.

“I don’t just like it,” he whispered, curling a hand around her waist. “I thrive in it.”

Then — just because he could — he kissed her again. This time deeper, longer, reckless with how much he meant it. Like he wanted her to feel it for the rest of the night. Like he needed the whole damn room to know she was his match — not just his muse.

When he finally pulled back, breath a little rough, eyes still locked on hers, he grinned.

“Next round’s on me,” he said, lacing their fingers again. “But just so we’re clear?”

His thumb traced hers.

“I’m not following you around.”

A pause. A heartbeat.

“I’m walking next to you. Forever, if you’ll let me.”

And just like that, cocky or not —
He meant every damn word.

Ellie’s smirk softened as his words landed, but she didn’t look away. Not once.

When he muttered about cautious never being in his playbook, she let out a low laugh and tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Good,” she murmured, thumb dragging slow circles against his knuckles. “Because cautious isn’t what I came here for.”

He told her about holding out for the girl who’d steal the hoodie, and her smile flickered — this time with something gentler. “Guess you’re lucky I’m a thief, Harrison,” she said quietly, tugging the sleeve again. “I’ve been waiting to steal something of yours since the bleachers.”

Then he rested his forehead to hers and admitted she made him plan futures. Her fingers slid up his jaw, almost tender, almost teasing. “You always were better at drawing up plays,” she whispered, brushing her nose against his. “Guess I like watching you improvise.”

When he told her to let them die mad about it, she huffed a laugh, leaning closer. “They can die mad,” she murmured, eyes dancing. “They missed their shot.”

He said he liked the way she rigged the game, and she smiled — slow, secret, like she was letting him peek at something she’d never shown anyone else. “It’s not rigged,” she whispered, mouth inches from his. “You just finally showed up to play.”

And when he said he thrived in fire, she grinned, curling her fingers into his hoodie. “Good,” she said. “Because I don’t plan on cooling off.”

The next kiss hit her like a match strike — deep, unhurried, the kind of kiss that left her ears ringing and her knees useless. She kissed him back, her hands sliding up into his hair, nails grazing lightly at his nape until he made that low sound she’d been dying to hear again.

When he finally pulled back and said next round’s on him, she didn’t break eye contact. She just lifted the fresh Fireball the bartender slid over, clinked it against his glass, and downed it in one smooth swallow.

The cinnamon burned all the way down. Her pulse thudded in her throat. She set the empty glass back on the counter with a soft thud, then caught his hand in hers.

“Enough talking,” she said, voice low now, no trace of sarcasm, only heat.

She tugged him through the crowd and down the hallway toward the bathrooms, her fingers tight around his. The jukebox noise dulled behind them. The hallway’s low light painted her in gold and shadow.

When they were finally out of sight, she spun, pushing him back against the wall with a thump. Her palms flattened against his chest, hoodie sleeve riding up her arm.

This wasn’t a show.
Not a dare.
Not for anyone else.

She rose on her toes, her mouth catching his again — harder, hungrier, the kind of kiss meant only for the two of them. Her fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him closer until there was no space left between them.

“This,” she whispered against his lips, breath uneven now, “this is just for us.”

And then she kissed him again, slow and deep, like she had every intention of proving it.

He should’ve known.
Should’ve known the second she curled her fingers into his hoodie like it was a claim, not a cover.
Should’ve known when she looked at him like that — unblinking, unbothered, undone but in control.

But nothing could’ve prepared him for that Fireball grin, or the way she took the shot like it was a vow and then said:
“Enough talking.”

Jesus Christ.

Tyler Harrison, star forward, locker room legend, king of the third-period comeback —
was absolutely dragged through the bar by a girl who’d once told him to go to hell in the parking lot of a Sonic.

And he followed.
No hesitation. No protest. Just blind, burning want.

Her fingers gripped his like they had a purpose. Her body moved through the crowd with that sway that should’ve been illegal. And when the hallway swallowed them — dim lights flickering, music fading behind, everything too quiet — he opened his mouth to say something—

Only to be slammed back against the wall with a thud and a low, involuntary “fuck—” as her palms flattened to his chest and her lips caught his again, all heat and urgency and wildfire wrapped in lip gloss and silk.

His hands were on her before he even realized — one at her waist, the other sliding up beneath the hem of his hoodie, greedy for skin. His breath caught when she rose onto her toes, mouth claiming his like she was daring him not to fall apart.

This wasn’t a game.
Wasn’t about showboating or old rivalries or making the puck bunnies cry.

This was Ellie Tate, his Ellie, pressed against him like a secret, whispering:

“This is just for us.”

And God help him, he believed her.

Because for all the chaos they caused — all the years of almost and not-yet and that kiss in the back of the truck that never stopped echoing — this was the moment he’d always been skating toward. Not the goal light. Her.

Tyler kissed her back like he meant it — because he did.
Every second. Every inch. Every goddamn heartbeat of it.

And when her fingers curled tighter in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, he made that sound she’d once teased him about — low and wrecked and real.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, both of them breathing like they’d run sprints.

“Ellie,” he murmured, voice rough, “if this is just for us… I swear, I’m never letting go.”

Then he kissed her again — slow and deep and certain.
Because there wasn’t a game plan in the world that could touch what they’d just started.

Ellie’s breath hitched in her throat, caught between a laugh and a sigh, her pulse still chasing the adrenaline that hadn’t caught up to the rest of her yet. The hallway smelled like beer and cedar soap and him — that familiar, unfair scent that had lived in her head longer than she’d ever admit out loud.

His words hung there, rough and reverent. If this is just for us… I swear, I’m never letting go.

Something in her chest stuttered. She felt it everywhere — in the way her fingers flexed against his chest, in the press of his heartbeat beneath her palms, in the static that buzzed under her skin every time he breathed. The dim light above them flickered once, painting his jaw in gold, his lips still red from where she’d kissed him like she meant it.

She didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

“Then don’t,” she whispered, her voice low but sure, the kind of quiet that still carried weight. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles grazing the warmth of his skin beneath it. “Don’t let go.”

She tilted her head until their foreheads met again, breath mingling, the air between them thick with something electric. Her lips brushed his — not quite a kiss yet, but a promise dressed up as one.

“Because I think,” she breathed, barely above a whisper, “you finally mean it this time.”

The words landed heavier than she expected. Not an accusation, not a wound — just truth. She’d run before, and he had too, both of them good at pretending the fire wasn’t still there. But now, pressed against him under dim bar lights, she could feel it — the shift. The steadiness.

That smile followed — slow and certain, the kind that always spelled trouble, the kind he’d been chasing since she first learned how to undo him with a look. It crept up the corner of her mouth as her thumb traced the edge of his jaw. “You hear that, Harrison? I think I actually believe you.”

Her laughter slipped out — soft, breathy, the sound of something breaking open and mending in the same beat. She caught his lower lip between hers again, kissed him like she had all the time in the world, like she’d earned this. Because she had.

When she pulled back, her eyes didn’t waver — wide, dark, alive with that dangerous glint he’d always loved and feared in equal measure.

“Guess we’re both stuck now,” she murmured, still close enough for her words to ghost across his mouth. Her grin was pure challenge, half affection, half dare. “Hope you can keep up, Harrison.”

And before he could answer — before he could do anything but grin like a fool and tighten his grip at her waist — she kissed him again, deeper this time, slower, the kind of kiss that left no question about who it was for.

The hallway could’ve fallen away for all she cared. The world could’ve stopped spinning. All that mattered was this — the heat, the press, the sound of his breath catching against her mouth — and the dizzy, impossible truth that for the first time, she believed neither of them were letting go.