Page 119 of Can't Stop Watching

Rain drips between us, but neither of us moves.

I pull back just enough to look at him, raindrops clinging to my eyelashes. "Is this how you're always going to kiss me now? Like I'm made of glass?"

His brow furrows, that little wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. It's the same look he gets when he's analyzing a situation, putting pieces together.

Then understanding dawns in his eyes. "You mean too gentle."

"Don't get me wrong," I say quickly. "This is... nice. But I didn't exactly fall for Nice Guy Dane. I fell for the guy who?—"

"Who handcuffed you to a doorframe and made you beg?" His voice drops an octave, sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the rain.

"Among other things," I mumble, feeling heat rush to my core despite myself.

Dane's smile turns dangerous, more like the predator I remember. His fingers trace my jawline, featherlight but purposeful. "I'll do whatever the hell you ask for, Lila. But don't worry…" He leans in close, his breath warm against my ear. "I can still keep you on your toes."

Jesus. The memory of dangling from those handcuffs floods back, along with all the sensations that followed. My knees go embarrassingly weak.

"You're ridiculous," I manage, but my breathless voice betrays me.

"I'm whatever you need me to be," he says, suddenly serious again. "That's the point."

The rain is coming down harder now, plastering my hair to my face. We should probably move this reunion somewhere dry, but I can't seem to make myself care.

"Just be you," I say. "The real you. Not the stalker version, obviously. The you who fought for me. Who told me about your past. Who cooked me risotto."

His eyes soften at that, and he tucks a wet strand of hair behind my ear. "I can do that."

"Good." I take his hand, careful of his injuries. "Now can we please go somewhere that isn't a biblical flood? I've got enough dramatic shit in my life without catching pneumonia in the rain."

Dane laughs, squeezing my fingers. "Your wish is my command. But just one more thing."

"What?"

"What was that about notfallingfor Nice Guy Dane?" That vulnerability and hope are back in his expression.

My mind short-circuits as Dane's question hangs between us. Did I seriously just admit I'vefallenfor him? Out loud? In the pouring rain when I should me making him suffer?

Shit.

I should backpedal. I should make a joke about slippery sidewalks and falling. I should definitely, absolutely NOT confirm what I just accidentally revealed. The man stalked me, for Christ's sake. He should suffer a little. Make him work harder before I hand him my whole heart.

But looking at his face—that vulnerable, hopeful expression—I can't bring myself to play games. These days weeks without him have been hollow. I've spent every night staring at my ceiling, replaying everything: the way we met, how he shielded me with his own body, how he let me walk away at the hospital without saying a word.

He fucked up, but he's a good man.

He searches my gaze. I could make him wait longer. I could drag this out, make him chase me properly for a few months.

But then I think about the light in his eyes when he told me he loved me. I think about how that light dimmed when he thought I was rejecting him. And I realize… I want to see that light burn brighter. I want to be the one who turns it up to the max.

Fuck it.

"I love you, Dane." The words come out in a rush, like I'm afraid they'll evaporate if I don't get them out fast enough. "I shouldn't, but I do. And it terrifies me, and I'm still pissed at you, and we have so much shit to work through, but... yeah. I love you."

The smile that breaks across his face is unlike any other I've ever seen from him—unguarded, genuine joy that transforms his entire being. It's like watching the sun come out.

Dane's kiss isn't gentle this time. He claims me with the intensity I've been craving, his arms pulling me against him despite the rain, despite his injuries. I feel his wince when I press too hard against his side, but he doesn't stop.

"Careful," I murmur against his mouth. "Your bullet holes."

"Worth it," he growls.

We're completely soaked now, my clothes clinging to my skin, his hair plastered to his forehead. We must look absolutely insane to anyone passing by—two drenched idiots making out in a downpour.

I can't bring myself to care.

Because this—his hands on my face, the taste of rain on his lips, the solid warmth of him against me—this feels like coming home. And that's the most terrifying, exhilarating revelation of all.

We'll have to deal with his fuck-up. We'll have to navigate my trust issues. We'll have to build something new from the rubble of our broken parts. I've got a novel's worth of trauma, and Dane's got his own library of darkness.

But as he smiles down at me, I know one thing for certain: whatever monsters lurk in our shadows—whether they wear the faces of our past monsters—they don't stand a chance against us now.