Then something in him snapped loose.
One step.
His hand fisted in her shirt, knuckles brushing the skin at her collarbone.
His mouthcrashed onto hers—rough, unguarded, all the restraint he’d been holding finally shattering.
She gasped against him, fingers catching his shoulders, then grabbed him back just as fiercely, pulling him closer, giving as much as he gave. He hauled her against him, chest to chest, walking her backward until her knees hit the couch.
She dropped onto the cushions; he followed, the kiss turning wild and devastating.
Her hands slid up, threading into his hair, holding him there. His groan rumbled against her mouth, low and involuntary. His grip tightened at her waist, thumbs pressing into the heat of her through her shirt, holding her like he wasn’t letting go again.
The room narrowed to breath and heartbeat and the solid weight of him over her.
They stayed like that, foreheads pressed, breaths colliding, heat simmering between them, neither daring to move first.
“Tess,” he rasped, breath unsteady, “if we go any further right now, I won’t be able to stop.”
She let her forehead rest against his, voice shaking but sure.
“I know.”
Her fingers were still in his hair. His hand was still at her waist, thumb moving once—almost a stroke, almost a surrender—before he made himself still.
They stayed there, breathing the same air, the storm between them finally breaking.
After a long moment, she eased back, palms sliding down his chest.
“We have to be able to walk into that bullpen tomorrow and still do the job,” she said quietly.
He huffed out something like a laugh. “Yeah. That.”
She straightened her shirt, he stepped back, and the space between them felt different now—charged, but honest.
“Text me when you get home,” he said.
“I will.”
At the door, she hesitated, looked back once.
“This wasn’t a mistake,” she said.
“No. It wasn’t.” His gaze held hers. “Not for me.”
She left him standing there, the echo of her mouth still on his, and headed down off the ridge into the dark.
Tomorrow they’d walk into the station like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
32
Black Bear Ridge — Night
Scout lingered on the porch, arms folded, watching as Tessa’s taillights snaked down the mountain and disappeared into the dark. Somewhere below, a coyote’s howl drifted up. He’d asked her to text when she got home. He trusted she would.
He leaned against the post, letting the cabin’s glow spill across the boards. Every part of him could still feel her: the press of her mouth, the heat of her hands, the way she’d looked at him when she finally let herself be honest.
