Riley POV

It was just a kiss.

One kiss. That’s it.

That’s what I told myself while blotting mascara smudges off my cheek with the back of my hand, and popped two aspirin. The room was too bright, too quiet, and the air had that stale, post-bar funk clinging to my hoodie, cheap tequila, someone else’s cologne, and regret. My phone buzzed on the nightstand, lighting up with a name that wasn’t really a name.

Nate. No last name. No job title. No social media stalking trail.

Just a guy. A stupidly hot one. Who kissed like he was trying to win a war and then vanished like a ghost at sunrise.

I texted him the next morning because, apparently, I enjoy making terrible decisions while caffeinated and hungover.

Me: Still no last name?

Nate: Still no regrets.

Me: Bold.

Nate: Accurate.

Nate: Do I get yours?

Me: You didn’t earn it.

He sent back a single eye emoji, followed by a shrug gif. Asshole.

I was annoyed. Mostly by how I kept rereading the texts. And how annoyingly charming he was in that cocky, I-definitely-have-too-many-abs sort of way.

I should’ve ghosted. I meant to. But I didn’t.

Instead, I kept texting. Little things. Stupid jokes. Sarcastic observations. He gave it right back, fast and funny and weirdly attentive.

Still no job reveal, though. I assumed he was a trainer or something. He had that fit look, too fit. I pegged him as the kind of guy who lives at the gym and says shit like “leg day” with a straight face. Probably coached peewee hockey or taught CrossFit to single moms. Something that involved sweat and ego.

Avery was the one to call me out. Of course.

“You’re smiling at your phone again,” Avery said the next afternoon, eyes narrowing over her cup of burnt stadium coffee.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. That’s your I-don’t-want-to-admit-I-like-him face.”

“I don’t like him,” I snapped, shoving my phone in my bag like it betrayed me. “It was a drunk kiss, Avery. My standards were compromised.”

She snorted. “Your standards are always compromised. You dated a guy who did parkour.”

“That was one time. And he had excellent core strength.”

“Mmhmm.”

I didn’t dignify her smugness with a response.

Instead, I took my phone out of my bag to send Nate a message as I packed up my bag and pulled on my jacket.

Me: I’m heading back to my place tomorrow.

Nate: Already?

Me: Gotta open the shop. People need overpriced lattes and aggressively sarcastic bookmarks.

Nate: Sounds like a religious experience.

Me: It is.

Nate: What kind of shop?

Me: Bookstore/coffee shop hybrid. No sports allowed.

Nate: No sports??

Me: You’ll survive. Probably.

Nate: That sounds like a threat.

Me: It is.

There was a pause. Long enough that I thought maybe he’d finally dropped the bit.

Then: Nate: Text me when you get home safe.

Me: Why?

Nate: So I know where to send your apology latte when you realize you miss me.

Cocky bastard.

And yet... I typed out a reply. Then deleted it. Then typed again.

I was in trouble.

Not because of the kiss. Or the texting. Or even his stupid smile that I could still see in my mind like it was burned into my frontal lobe.

No, I was in trouble because some small, traitorous part of me did want to see him again.

But I wasn’t ready to admit that yet. Not to him. Not even to myself.