Page 89 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

His lips curve. “True. But I could make it permanent.”

I hum, pretending to consider it. “I dunno… What’s in it for me?”

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. His breath is warm, and my skin tingles beneath it. “Everything.”

My pulse flutters like wings against a cage. For once, I don’t deflect. I don’t joke. I justfeel it.

His fingers slide up my spine, trailing fire as they go. I arch slightly into the touch, my breath catching as he shifts on top of me, slowly easing me onto my back. I’m grateful we have the house to ourselves at the moment. The last thing we need is our friends to walk in and interrupt this moment between us.

His eyes meet mine—dark, sure, unflinching.

“You don’t have to say anything, Ally,” he says, voice low and steady. “I just wanted you to know… when the time comes, I won’t hesitate.”

I lift my hand and cup his cheek, letting my thumb trace the sharp edge of his jaw, the day-old stubble beneath it.

“I won’t either,” I say quietly.

His breath hitches—and then he kisses me.

Not rushed. Not frantic.

Slow. Deep. Intentional.

The kind of kiss that saysI see you. Ichooseyou.

His body sinks against mine, and I feel every point of contact—his weight, his warmth, the familiar scent of his skin. The way his thigh slots between mine, the delicious friction as he moves just enough to remind me that this—us—isn’t just emotional.

It’s physical.

It’sreal.

It’severything.

He kisses me like he wants to memorise the shape of my mouth, his fingers tangling in my hair as my hands explore the curve of his back, the heat of his skin under his shirt. I can’t get close enough.

I don’t want to.

Because in this moment, with his body pressed against mine and our hearts beating in sync—I know.

We’re not rushing. We’re not promising things we can’t keep.

But this?

This is forever.

And I’m all in.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-NINE

RHYS

It happens so fast I don’t even have time tothink.

One second, Ally’s standing beside me in the kitchen, barefoot in one of my old hoodies, arguing about whether we should make pasta or order Mushu’s.

Her fingers are dancing along the counter as she talks—animated, light, vibrant in that way she gets when she’s distracted and finally,finally, letting herself relax.

And then her voice falters.

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