Page 41

The room feels impossibly quiet in his absence, the air still crackling with tension. I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My lips are swollen, my cheeks flushed, and my eyes are wide, gleaming with emotions that I can’t start unpacking right now.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady myself, but the image staring back at me doesn’t feel like me.

It feels like someone else entirely. Splashing water on my face helps a bit and somehow, my legs manage to carry me out of the bathroom.

When I reenter the dining area, my eyes find him immediately.

Thatcher is already back at the table, leaning back in his seat with an unbothered expression on his face. His eyes meet mine across the room and butterflies erupt.

This feeling in my chest is dangerous territory.

My feet move before my mind can catch up, each step deliberate and slow as if I’m walking through water.

The dining area feels too bright, the murmur of voices and clinking of silverware too loud.

Yet everything else fades to the background—there’s only Thatcher, lounging there like nothing’s out of place, like nothing just happened.

I stop a few feet away from the table, the weight of his gaze of pinning me in place. He leans forward slightly, resting on his elbows on the edge of the table, the smirk still playing on his lips as he gestures again to the empty booth across from him.

Without a word, I slide into the booth, ignoring Thatcher’s widening smirk and focusing instead on the slightly stained linoleum table in front of me. Slowly, I reach out and grab my coffee mug, taking a sip.

I keep my focus on the mug in my hands, gripping it like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. I trace the chipped rim, the lukewarm coffee doing nothing to soothe the heat crawling up my neck.

“Dove,” he says.

The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why do you call me that?”

Thatcher pauses mid-bite, his eyes meeting mine again. For a moment, the teasing glint is replaced by something unreadable, something that makes my stomach twist in knots. “What do you mean?”

I put my coffee down and pick up the fork. “ Dove ,” I clarify. “Why do you call me that?”

He sets his fork down, his smirk softening into a crooked smile. “Because you remind me of one,” he says simply, as if that explains everything.

“A dove?” I press, furrowing my brows.

He shrugs, leaning back in his seat and studying me like he’s deciding how much to say. “They’re quiet but stubborn. Soft but tougher than they look. They don’t back down easily.”

I almost laugh. Almost.

“And,” he adds, his smirk returning full force, “you get flustered just as easily.”

I feel my face heat up, the flush creeping up my neck as his words hit too close to home. “No, I don’t.” I take a bite of pancake, forcing myself to focus on the food rather than him. But it’s hard to ignore those eyes.

Thatcher chuckles, the sound low and warm, like he knows exactly what’s running through my head. “Sure, Dove. Whatever you say.”

I keep my eyes on my plate, refusing to let him see the effect his words have on me. That maybe he means something more to me now than he did before. And maybe I mean something to him. The pancakes, once a welcome distraction, now feel like an inadequate shield against the intensity of his gaze.

He resumes eating and I sneak a glance at him, taking this rare moment to observe him.

It’s strange, seeing him like this — quiet and focused, without the usual edge of provocation in his expression.

The sunlight streaming through the diner’s window catches in his hair, highlighting the light strands, a dimple popping on his cheek as he smiles at something unseen.

My gaze catches on his wrist as he lifts his loaded fork to his mouth. My scrunchie.

The pale blue fabric sits snug around his wrist. A soft contrast to his confident demeanor.

It feels strange, almost out of place, like a piece of my world awkwardly clinging to his.

Before I can linger on the thought, my eyes trail to his fingers.

The ones that were inside of me not too long ago, making me feel things I have never felt.

I wonder if he can keep his promise of protecting me, or if he’s just saying it for the thrill of it. Because in a way, this little game we are playing is fun. I did not think I would ever admit that to myself, but here I am.

“Do I need to kill somebody?” he whispers.

My eyes meet his in shock. “Excuse me?”

He leans back. “You don’t like the rumors, so––”

I give him a sarcastic grin. “Are you fucking crazy? I didn’t mean you should hurt someone.”

“It would be fun,” he says, licking his lips. “You and me against the world, Dove.”

My eyes drop to the pancakes again to take a few bites.

“What about the Reapers?” I question.

He chuckles, leaning forward. “What the fuck do you know about that?”

I lick the syrup off the fork and lift a brow at him. “I heard the rumors. The Reapers are covering up Jack’s death, and people on campus are suspicious now.”

“It was foul play,” he says, watching my mouth.

“And how do the police know that?”

“Let’s go, Dove,” he says, his tone casual, as if we’re not having a vital conversation right now. I need to know this information. I need to know he’s keeping me safe.

I narrow my eyes at him, staying seated for a moment longer, unwilling to let him change the subject. “Not until you answer my question.”

Thatcher pauses, one brow quirking upward as he looks down at me, his grin never faltering.

“It’s none of your business.”

“But it is,” I say firmly, crossing my arms. “You came inside of me today in the backseat of your car. If you ask me to kiss you, I kiss you. If you ask me to fuck, I fuck you. I’m keeping my end of the bargain, so my question is, are you?”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm, but there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “You’re not in charge here, Dove?”

I smirk. “No?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

I nod, holding his gaze, my arms still crossed. “Then you can leave without me.”

Thatcher settles back into the booth, his smirk lingering as he stretches out, his posture completely unbothered. The faint brush of his legs against mine under the table sends a jolt up my spine, but I refuse to react.

His eyes flick to mine, dark and heated. “Are you sure you can handle that?”

I narrow my eyes at him, determined not to let his tone or the way his legs deliberately press lightly against mine fluster me, but I can’t control the flush that creeps up my chest when I feel the tip of his sneaker brushing up my bare calf.

“My ‘leaving’ is very very different from the one you have in mind,” he pauses, and I feel his foot trail higher. “If I leave…” He presses his foot against my center. “Then that’s it.”

I glare at him as he removes his foot.

“You sure you’re ready for that, Dove? I thought we had a deal. I swear you said those two words. Hmm, what were they?”

“I hate your games,” I whisper.

He smirks at me, his satisfaction unmistakable.

“Learn to play, or you’ll lose,” he quips, leaning back in the booth with an infuriatingly casual air, as if he’s completely unfazed.

“This is so stupid,” I snap, my voice tight as I push back my hair from my face, hoping the motion masks the slight tremble in my hands.

His smirk softens at the edges, and for a fleeting moment, something gentler flickers in his gaze. “Relax, Dove,” he murmurs, his tone dropping just enough to be heard only by me. “You’re the one making this a big deal. I promised you protection. I didn’t agree to tell you how.”

The words sting, and I grit my teeth, glaring at him. “Thatcher, nobody can know it was—”

He cuts me off by leaning forward and pressing a kiss to my forehead. The kiss catches me completely off guard, silencing whatever words had been on the tip of my tongue. It’s brief, barely more than a brush of lips but it feels like a lightning strike—hot, startling.

I freeze, my breath hitching as the room seems to tilt for a moment. When he pulls back, his smirk is still there, but it’s softened into something else, something almost... tender?

“Apologize and kiss me,” he demands.

I roll my eyes, and he grabs my face.

“Dove.” “Thatcher. I am so sorry.” I lean into him and kiss his lips.

“I’ll drive you back,” Thatcher says, his voice quiet but steady, the earlier edge of teasing replaced by something calmer, almost soothing.

I blink at him, still trying to process what his protection means.

The joke he made about killing someone was not funny.

Before I can come to terms about anything, I’m outside and Thatcher is guiding me into the passenger side of his car.

I watch him dimly as he rounds the car and slides in beside me.

When the car comes to life and starts moving, that’s when I snap out of it.

My gaze snaps to Thatcher, who’s completely focused on the road as he turns.

The earlier tenderness in his expression is replaced by a calm, unreadable mask, but my skin feels hypersensitive, every brush of fabric against my thighs a reminder of what happened in that diner’s bathroom.

I shift in the passenger seat, hyperaware of the slick warmth between my legs, the way my pulse still hammers in places that have nothing to do with my heart.

The leather is cool against my back as I lean into it, trying to ground myself in something other than the memory of Thatcher’s hands on me, his mouth against my neck, the desperate way I clung to him as he—

Stop. Focus.

The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s charged with an electricity that makes the air feel thick, heavy with unspoken words and the scent of what we just did.

I can smell him on my skin—that intoxicating blend of sandalwood and something darker, more primal.

The taste of him still lingers on my tongue.