Riley POV

I didn’t mean to say yes. I meant to play it cool, keep things breezy. Texting, flirting, leaving a little mystery. But the second he asked if I wanted to grab dinner, real dinner, like sit-down-and-talk-and-actually-see-each-other dinner, I said yes.

And I didn’t regret it. Not for a second.

He picked a spot halfway between my place and whatever life he lived, cozy, dim, tucked into the kind of street you only find when you’re not looking. We sat at the bar even though there were open tables. His idea. “Closer,” he said with a grin, like he didn’t want to be far enough away to think straight. I didn’t either.

I ordered wine. He got whiskey, neat. The kind of drink that matched his voice, warm, low, smooth enough to lull you into forgetting it was dangerous.

We didn’t rush. No pressure, no performance. Just slow, lingering touches and the kind of silence that said more than small talk ever could.

We talked like we had all night. Not surface-level bullshit or snarky jabs—though there was some of that too—but the kind of talk that happens when you let your guard down. When someone sees past the parts you usually protect.

He asked me things like he actually cared about the answers. I told him about my day at the bookstore-slash-café. About how sarcasm is cheaper than therapy. He didn’t flinch.

Just listened, like it mattered.

And when I asked about him, who he really was, what he wanted, he gave me pieces. Not all of it. Not yet. But enough to make me want more.

And then, somewhere between finishing our drinks and pretending we weren’t thinking about the next move, he looked at me like I wasn’t just a good time, like I was something he didn’t know how to stop needing.

“You wanna get out of here?” he asked, voice low.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

We didn’t make it past my place.

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He kissed like he meant it. Like he’d been holding back since the first time we touched. Like he’d been waiting for this moment, and it was killing him. Hands in my hair, breath against my throat, body pressed to mine like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between us.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t practiced. It was raw. He kissed me like he was starving, like he wanted to devour and worship all at once.

Clothes came off in pieces. Between kisses, between breathless laughs, between the kind of groans that live in your bones long after the moment passes.

“Jesus, Riley,” he muttered against my skin, “you’re unreal.”

I climbed into his lap, straddling him on my couch like it was the only place I ever wanted to be. He groaned as I rolled my hips against him, fingers digging into my thighs like he needed to anchor himself. I reached between us, took him in my hand, and he cursed, low, broken.

“You sure?” he asked, even though his whole body was already answering for him.

“Yes,” I breathed, sinking down onto him slowly.

The way he held me, it undid me. The way he moved with me wasn’t just about our bodies. It was everything. It was too much. And somehow still not enough. It wasn’t just sex. It was something else. Something that made my chest feel too full, like it was going to split wide open. We moved together like we’d done this a hundred times and never once before. And when I came, he whispered my name like it was sacred.

Later, tangled in blankets, skin still buzzing, I traced a scar on his chest with my fingertip.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter now, something soft hiding in it.

“I should be asking you that,” I said, glancing up.

He looked at me like I’d cracked something open inside him, something no one else had touched.

I told him about my ex.

The one who coached high school hockey, who cheated, who gaslit, who made me feel small for not loving the game that consumed him. I told him how the sport became a trigger. How the gear smell made me nauseous. How puck bunnies ruined the café bathroom with their lipstick and mirror selfies.

He didn’t say anything for a minute. Just held me tighter.

“That guy was an idiot,” he finally said.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “He was.”

Still no mention of what he did for a living. Still no clue. I didn’t ask. Maybe because I didn’t want to ruin the illusion. Maybe because, deep down, I didn’t care.

As we were getting dressed—reluctantly, with lingering touches—I groaned and checked my phone.

“What?” he asked, half-smiling like I amused the hell out of him.

“Avery,” I muttered. “She’s dragging me to some charity thing. Something to do with hockey, which is ironic, since that’s the one sport I swore I’d never pretend to care about again.”

He froze for half a second. Just a flicker. Then he masked it with another smirk.

“Hockey, huh?” he said. “Sounds brutal, when is it?”

I rolled my eyes. “At least there’ll be wine. I think it’s next month or something. You should come with me. Be my emotional support, normal guy.”

He grinned. “You sure I’d fit in?”

“Positive. You’re good at pretending to be chill.”

He laughed, kissed me once more, and didn’t say no.