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“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” I replied, uncaring what he thought. He was my best friend’s boyfriend, not my moral compass.

Riot’s mouth twitched. “Breakfast good?”

“Excellent.” I smiled at him like a feral cat.

“Good.” He turned back to the engine. “Deadeye, you’re on oil changes when you’re done playing host.”

Right, because “host” had been the actual word he’d reached for. Still, I appreciated his discretion.

“Give me five minutes,” Deadeye said.

“Take ten.”

I walked faster toward the lot, my boots clicking against the concrete. Deadeye kept pace beside me, one hand resting lightly on the small of my back.

At my car, I turned to face him. The sun had climbed higher, catching the blue in his eyes and turning them nearly silver.

“Last night was—” I started.

“I thought so.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on the curve of my jaw.

“I’m not usually that…”

“Enthusiastic?”

“Forward. Impulsive. Desperate.”

“You weren’t desperate.” His thumb traced the edge of my cheekbone. “You were fucking incredible. We shared something bone-deep, Niles. Stop beating yourself up about it.”

I leaned into his touch for half a second before pulling back.

“I have to go,” I said.

“I know.”

“Apartment building. Falling apart. My dubious expertise required.”

“Call me if you need help.”

“I always need help.”

His smile almost derailed me. “Then call me.”

Getting into my car felt harder than it should’ve. I started the engine—still making that noise, still ignoring it—and pulled out of the lot. In the rearview mirror, Deadeye stood by the garage entrance, one hand raised in a wave that made me want to turn back around.

The drive home gave me too much time to think. My body still hummed with the memory of his hands. My shoulder throbbed faintly where he’d bitten me, the skin tender beneath my tank top strap. I pressed my fingers to the spot and felt the raised edges of the mark.

A bite. He’d actually bitten me.

The thought circled through my head as I parked in my usual spot and trudged up the stairs to my floor. I dug my keys from my skirt pocket and rounded the corner toward my door.

The neighbor from 3D stood in the hallway.

He leaned against the wall near the stairwell, arms crossed, shoulders hunched. His clothes were the same as yesterday—rumpled shirt, dark pants, shoes that had seen better decades. When he heard my footsteps, his head turned, and his eyes found me with the slow accuracy of something predatory.

I stopped walking.