Page 37 of Can't Stop Watching

"Don't be." His voice is warm, genuine. "It's good to have people who care enough to be ridiculous on your behalf."

As he closes my door and walks around to the driver's side, I let myself really look at him—the way he moves like every step is intentional, the thoughtful set of his jaw, the careful way he handles everything.

For the first time in years, I feel that dangerous pull of wanting to know someone completely. Of wanting to be known.

And that's what terrifies me most about Dane Wolfe—not that he might be dangerous, but that I might actually let him see me. All of me. Even the parts I've kept buried since New Orleans.

12

LILA

The engine purrs as we wind through late-night Manhattan streets. I'm hyper-aware of Dane's presence—the way his hands rest on the steering wheel, how his profile cuts against the streetlights sliding past.

"Which way from here?" he asks at a stoplight, voice low.

"Left at the next light, then three blocks down." I fidget with my ear cuff, suddenly conscious of my shabby apartment building waiting at the end of this drive. "It's not exactly a luxury high-rise."

"You have nothing to feel bad about. You're a college student," he says

As we approach my street, my stomach ties itself into increasingly complicated knots. What happens now? The goodnight-at-the-door dance is awkward enough without adding the whole I-know-you-watched-my-friend-spy-on-us element.

He finds street parking—a minor miracle in this neighborhood—and kills the engine. The silence feels thick enough to touch.

"Here we are," I say brilliantly. Good job, Lila. Truly earth-shattering conversational skills.

Dane turns toward me, and the streetlight catches his face just right—highlighting those impossibly sharp cheekbones, the slight shadow along his jaw. His eyes hold mine, and I forget my next breath.

"I had a good time tonight," he says, his voice a low rumble that makes my shiver.

"Even with amateur surveillance hour included?"

His mouth quirks. "Especially that part."

Then he's leaning in—so slowly I could count each heartbeat between us—giving me every chance to pull away. But I don't want to. God help me, I don't want to.

His lips touch mine, tentative at first, then with gathering certainty. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheek like I'm something precious. The kiss is gentle but confident—no pushing, no demanding, just the warm press of his mouth against mine. The taste of him floods my senses—wine and mint and something uniquely Dane, something that makes my heart slam against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

Heat spreads through my body, starting from my lips and radiating outward until it pools low in my belly, a liquid warmth that makes me shift in my seat. A soft sound escapes me—embarrassingly needy—as electricity zips down my spine. My fingers find their way to his shirt, gripping it like I might float away if I let go.

I can't remember the last time a simple, closed-mouth kiss turned my brain to static like this. Hell, I can't remember if it'severhappened. It's just a kiss, for Christ's sake, but my body's lighting up like Times Square on New Year's Eve. Every nerve ending tingles, every thought evaporates except formoreandpleaseandDane.

When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and dizzy.

"Do you want to come up?" The words tumble out before I can overthink them. "I have beer. And... stuff."

And stuff?Jesus, I sound like an awkward teenager.

Dane studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Are you sure?"

It's the way he asks—not assuming, not pushing—that makes me certain.

"Yeah," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "I'm sure."

I jab at the keypad like I'm typing a ransom note—the thing's finicky as hell, and my fingers are suddenly useless. The lock finally clicks, and I catch Dane's half-smile in my peripheral vision.

"It's temperamental," I mutter. "Like everything else in this building."

We climb the stairs in loaded silence, our footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell. My heart hammers so hard I swear he must hear it, like some Edgar Allan Poe nightmare. Five flights feel like forty with Dane right behind me, his presence almost a physical touch on my skin.