I fold my hands neatly in my lap. My nails bite into my palms to keep me focused. “Rowan doesn’t indulge anyone. He commits. Or he cuts ties. There’s no in between.”
Masden tilts his head. “So which one are you?”
I smile again, every millimeter of it precise. “I’m the reason he’ll make partner early.”
His eyes flicker, just once, before his mouth smooths back into a polite curve. Point scored.
Then—footsteps.
Familiar enough to steal the air from my lungs.
The temperature shifts.
Rowan.
The one person who always shows up a beat too late.
I don’t turn.
I just reach back, my fingers brushing his wrist first, then the cuff of his shirt, feeling the steady pulse beneath fabric and the heat of skin I shouldn’t still recognize.
And I pull.
Rowan stops cold behind me, and for a single, suspended second, the entire porch goes silent.
His chest brushes the back of the bench.
His hands hover, not quite touching. He’s scanning the scene before deciding what to do.
Camden.
Masden.
Me.
The hierarchy is clear. The threat assessment clearer.
I turn slowly, and look up at him.
His eyes find mine immediately. There’s recognition in them, the kind that burns. He doesn’t need an explanation; he just needs the cue.
I raise my brows slightly and turn in my chair, a silent instruction, and let my hand drift up his chest.
And Rowan?
He gets it.
Instantly.
He steps forward, closing the distance. One arm slides down my shoulders, anchoring me. The other finds the back of my neck, fingers firm, and steady.
And then—he kisses me.
Not politely.
Not for show.
It’s pressure and control, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission because it’s already decided it has it. The world narrows to the press of his mouth against mine, the sound of breath shared, the faint scrape of his thumb at my jaw when I move closer.
