Page 69 of Riptide

That earns a small smile. I let the silence stretch between us before speaking again. “And for what it’s worth…I don’t think you’re keeping the world out.”

His hand rubs up and down my shin, but he doesn’t look at me. “No?”

I shake my head. “You let me in.”

His eyes flick back to mine, swallowing audibly. The air around us feels like the beginning of a storm, quiet, peaceful, but there’s something in the distance that’s charged, electrons firing off, stirring something real and heavy and one-hundred percent out of our control.

“Letting you in scares the hell outta me,” he says, holding my gaze. I watch the darkness in his eyes, the shadows that lingerthere from his previous relationship, but it’s not all I see. There’s a glimmer of hope, and that tells me he wants this too. Even if he’s not sure he should.

“I get it… I’m scared too.” Not for the same reasons as him. I’ve never had anyone mean more to me than sex, but with Foxx, I feel like I dove in with two feet in a way that should scare me, but all he does is help me see things differently. He brings me perspective that I didn’t have before in the way he lives his life. He thinks it’s boring, but when all I’ve had for the last several months is pain, and that shit is loud, he’s like a breath of fresh air. A wave that creeps to your toes at the shoreline. “It’s not the kind of scared I wanna run from, though.”

His hand tightens on my leg, thumb dragging back and forth as he releases a slow breath. The way he looks at me makes my heart beat like a hummingbird, fierce and alive.

He’s becoming something constant in my world, and I’m not sure how to tell him that he’s the one I’d maybe like to stand still with.

Chapter twenty-nine

Foxx

SinceFinnandIspent the evening babysitting for Daphne, the days have blurred together. Between the end of semester chaos and exams, Rosie teething, and Finn helping out where he can so Daphne and Hudson can study, we’ve only spent a few stolen late nights and early morning goodbyes together, our time mostly consumed by frantic kisses and toe-curling orgasms that neither of us complain about. I wonder if he misses it all when he’s alone…

My apartment is quiet except for the scratch of Eugene’s slippers as he shuffles in like this is his place and not mine. He’s carrying a tin of cinnamon rolls under one arm and a cat that looks ready to bite someone under the other.

“You don’t own a proper robe,” he says, judging my festive snowman sweatshirt and sweatpants combo. “I’ve raised you better than that.”

“You didn’t raise me.” I laugh.

“Semantics.” He sets the rolls down, opening the tin between us, passing me a plate he just got from the kitchen. “Merry Christmas, Professor Grinch.”

“Back at you, Scrooge.”

There’s a comfort in our shared loneliness sometimes, and I can’t help but feel like it’s so easy to overlook moments like this with people who mean so much to you. I glance over at him. His white hair’s a mess, he’s got icing on his chin, and he’s halfway through his second roll already.

And maybe that’s the thing about people like him. They just show up. They knock on your door on a cold holiday morning with bakery tins and remind you that you’re not as alone as you feel. So I take my time. I eat the best cinnamon roll of my life with my best friend next to me. And I let it matter.

Once we’re finished and plates are discarded on the coffee table, Poppy growls from the couch next to him. “She’s still pissed at me for putting on that Christmas sweater.”

I smile, watching the sequined fabric glint across her back. She looks less like a festive cat and more like a furious ornament. “It’s cruel,” I say, amused. “She looks like a gremlin in sequins.”

“She’s festive,” he counters, though there’s a smirk tugging at his mouth.

The Ella Fitzgerald record plays low in the background, a warm, crackling balm against the cold outside. The scent of cinnamon and coffee lingers in the air. It’s peaceful, familiar, and I’m happy to be here with him.

Eugene shifts in his seat and reaches into the canvas bag he brought with him. He pulls out a small, neatly wrapped rectangle, covered in dark green paper.

He holds it out without looking at me. “Here.”

I blink at it. “I thought we said we’d skip presents this year?”

“It’s Christmas,” he says with a shrug, like that explains everything. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

I huff out a quiet laugh, already unwrapping. Inside is a black fountain pen that’s simple, elegant, clearly well-made. It’s heavier than I expected. There’s an inscription near the clip in tiny, etched lettering:Do the math.

I don’t trust myself to speak. It’s the thought behind it that’s got me. The way he knows me without ever needing to say it out loud. Gratitude wells up so fast it stings, burning behind my eyes before I can stop it.

Eugene glances over and makes a face. “Don’t get mushy. You grade like a lunatic. That one doesn’t smear.”

I nod, fingers curling around the pen. “Thank you,” I say, quietly clearing my throat. “It’s perfect.”

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