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Her eyes lifted to mine. “I mean it.”

“So do I.”

17

MARIA

I’d been at Riot’s place for a week, and we’d agreed that I wouldn’t start looking for a place until my exams were over.

The closer my exams got, the more my entire life seemed to revolve around coffee, textbooks and a growing sense of panic. Every flat surface in the apartment had disappeared beneath revision notes. Flashcards covered half the dining table, textbooks were stacked on the coffee table, and a collection of colored highlighters had somehow spread across the kitchen counter like a particularly aggressive infection.

I sat cross-legged on the sofa with a pathology textbook balanced on my knee, reading the same paragraph for what felt like the tenth time. Nothing was sticking. My brain had reached the point where words existed only as shapes on a page. I rubbed at my eyes and looked at the clock.

Nearly midnight.

The apartment door opened a moment later. I didn’t even glance up. At some point, I’d become capable of recognizing Riot’s presence before I saw him. Maybe it was the heavy sound of his boots. Maybe it was the faint smell of smoke and leather that always seemed to follow him inside. Whatever it was, I knew it was him.

A paper bag landed beside me on the sofa, and I looked down and found a cheeseburger.

“You forgot dinner.”

I frowned. “I didn’t forget.”

Riot raised an eyebrow. The expression said ‘liar’ so clearly, he didn’t need to speak.

I looked back at the textbook.

He stood there for another second before taking the book from my hands entirely. “Hey . . . eat.”

The corner of my mouth twitched despite myself. Asshole.

I took the burger out and took a bite.

Victory flashed briefly across his face before he disappeared into the kitchen. The man treated feeding me like a personal responsibility.

Three days later, Ghost walked into the clinic with a split lip and a black eye. Neither injury appeared to be slowing him down.

“Tell me you didn’t get punched by the same guy twice.” I joked.

Ghost looked offended. “I got punched by three different guys.”

“That somehow feels worse.”

“It was a busy night.”

I sighed and pointed toward the examination room. Behind us, the clinic doors opened, and Ghost grinned immediately. “Oh, good. Here comes your shadow.”

I looked up just in time to see Riot walking inside. His gaze swept across the waiting room before landing on me, and the tension in his shoulders eased almost instantly.

“How bad?” he asked, following us into the treatment room.

Ghost pointed toward his face. “I think I’m dying.”

“Shame.”

Ghost gasped dramatically.

I rolled my eyes and started cleaning the cut above his lip while the two of them continued insulting each other. It struck me suddenly how normal it all felt. A few months earlier, the sight of six bikers walking through the clinic doors would’ve been enough to make my pulse spike. At that point I knew most of their medical histories better than some of my actual patients.