Page 9 of Let it Crackle (Playing with Fire #4)

Maddox

Maya’s curled on my lap in the quiet corner of the library we’ve claimed as our own.

She’s half on the armrest, half on me, wearing my fire station hoodie like it belongs to her.

Her fingers are tangled in my hair, her soft little sounds getting lost in the lazy kiss that’s stretching into something deeper.

Her lips brush mine again and again, like she’s memorizing every angle, every shift in breath.

I tighten my hold around her waist, dragging her in closer, needing more of her pressed against me. Her thigh slips over mine, and I groan into her mouth.

“Thought you were gonna finish editing your chapter,” I mumble against her lips, not meaning a word of it.

“I am,” she whispers, giggling as I tug her back down for another kiss. “You’re the one distracting me.”

“Can’t help it. You kiss like it’s my last day on earth.”

She smirks, glasses slipping a little. “Maybe it is. Library’s dangerous terrain. Have you seen the book carts?”

I chuckle, the sound low and warm in my chest. She shifts slightly, and the movement sends a bolt of heat through me. My fingers skate under the hem of her sweater, just to feel the softness of her skin, the proof that she’s here. That this isn’t something I imagined on a lonely night shift.

“I like you like this,” I say, nuzzling into her neck. “Wrapped around me. Wearing my clothes. Looking like home.”

She goes still in my arms for a beat, then rests her forehead against mine. “I never thought I’d have this,” she whispers. “Not really. Someone who... stays.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, voice rough. “Ever.”

Her eyes search mine, and I can see the fear still tucked behind the softness—the part of her that doesn’t fully believe she’s allowed to want more.

Which is exactly why I have to say this now.

“Listen,” I begin, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I read that chapter last night. The new one. And Maya… it’s damn good. Better than good.”

Her cheeks flush. “You’re just saying that because I only let you proofread it after sex. In the harsh light of day, I’m sure you’d be more critical.”

“No,” I say, firmly. “I’m saying that because I know talent when I see it. And because I want you to believe in yourself the way I do.”

She shifts slightly, but I don’t let her retreat. I hold her gaze.

“Send it out,” I say. “To a publisher. An agent. Anyone. Take a shot.”

Her lips part like she’s about to argue, to list all the reasons she shouldn’t. But I stop her with a kiss, softer this time. Reassuring.

“You’ve been writing stories that make people feel seen. That make me feel seen. You owe it to yourself to at least try.”

She exhales shakily. “What if it’s not good enough?”

“Then we try again. Together. I’ll punch a hole in the wall for every rejection note, so you’ll know I’m in this as much as you are.”

She laughs, eyes glassy now. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, I’m yours,” I say. “And I want to see you win, Maya. Big.”

She studies me for a long second. “You really think I can do this?”

“I know you can,” I say. “And I want you to move in with me.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

“I mean it,” I say. “Half your stuff is already at my place, and I wake up every morning wanting to reach for you. I don’t want borrowed time anymore. I want every minute.”

She doesn’t say anything right away.

And that’s okay.

I let her sit with it.

Her fingers toy with the collar of my hoodie, her eyes focused on the little firefighter patch stitched over my heart. She presses her palm over it gently. “I’m scared,” she admits. “But I don’t want to be.”

“Then be scared,” I tell her. “And do it anyway. I’ll catch you if you fall.”

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “You’re really not going anywhere?”

“Not a chance,” I whisper, kissing the tip of her nose. “And I’ve got all your snacks at my place. Plus a bookshelf with exactly one novel on it—that I think is ready for a friend. Or two. Or five hundred.”

She lets out a watery laugh. “Fine. I’ll move in. But only if you let me arrange the bookshelf however I want. I have a system.”

I grin. “Deal.”

“And I’ll email the chapters out,” she adds, voice trembling a little. “I promise. You can even hit send for me.”

“You got it.”

She kisses me again—slow and sweet and full of something real. And in that quiet little corner of the library, I know for sure I’ve found everything I didn’t even know I was looking for.

Maya Gibbons is the story I want to keep writing. Forever and forever.