Page 65 of The Final Faceoff
He’s barefoot, in gray sweatpants and a worn-out hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Hair a little messy, like he’s been dragging his fingers through it for the last hour. He looks pretty, maybe pretty isn’t the right word, but I . . . I need to stop looking at him with non-friend-goggles. He’s my bestie, my ride or die, my person. Not whatever my body thinks he can be.
I force myself to ignore the way my stomach dips.Act normal, Hailey.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, opening the fridge just for the illusion of purpose. “And I figured if I was going to be awake, I might as well be annoying and keep you company.”
His lips twitch, a flicker of something amused, something fond. “Generous of you.”
I grab a water bottle and hop up onto the counter. I don’t miss the way his gaze flicks to my legs—bare, since I’m wearing a tank top and sleep shorts. It’s quick, almost nothing.
But I notice.
And now my skin feels too hot.
I exhale slowly, unscrewing the cap. “Do you ever wonder why we work so well together?”
Leif tilts his head, shifting so he’s fully facing me now. “Work?”
“You know.” I gesture vaguely between us. “Why we get each other. Why this—” I wave around the penthouse, “—doesn’t feel weird, even though it should.”
He watches me for a long moment, his gaze calm but unreadable. Then, finally, he smirks, but it’s tighter than usual. “We don’t just work well together, Hail.”
I raise a brow, waiting.
His throat bobs, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “We’re inevitable.”
The air shifts.
I swallow too hard, gripping the water bottle between my fingers. “That’s dramatic.”
He shrugs, his jaw ticking like he’s holding something back. “Doesn’t make it untrue. You’re just trying to avoid it—but you know it’s there. Us.”
And now I can’t breathe.
Because the way he says it—soft, certain, completely unshaken—makes me realize what I already know deep down.
He’s right.
We crossed the line. It’s not blurry, it’s gone. But it should be like that. This is Leif. The guy who watches me like I’m something he has to protect.
Leif, who has always been there, in every country, on every call, for every stupid thing I’ve done since we met.
Leif, who makes me feel like home has never been a place, but a person.
The air feels charged, electric. My pulse hammers in my throat, and I know, Iknow, that I should move, laugh it off, keep things the way they’ve always been.
But I don’t.
The air between us shifts, slow and deliberate, like the pull of the tide before a wave crashes. It starts with the smallest touch—his fingers grazing my wrist, barely there, as if testing, waiting for me to stop him. A whisper of contact, so light I could pretend it never happened if I wanted to. But I don’t. I can’t. The warmth of his skin spreads through me, curling around my nerves, sending something restless, something insistent through my veins.
His fingers trail lower, wrapping around my wrist, his palm pressing against my pulse. The heat of it sears into me, making me hyperaware of everything—his nearness, the way his breath hitches slightly, the almost imperceptible flex of his grip. My heart pounds, erratic and impossible to ignore, each beat like a drum against my ribs, a silent admission of something I haven’t allowed myself to acknowledge. His thumb brushes over my pulse, a slow, unhurried glide that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
His voice is quiet, rough in a way that slides through me, low enough that I feel it more than hear it. “Tell me you don’t feel this.”
I should say something. I should pull away, make a joke, do anything but stand here and let the moment stretch, let the tension coil tighter between us. But the words won’t come. I don’t want to lie, don’t want to break whatever is happening, don’t want to pretend that my entire body isn’t humming with something I don’t fully understand.
He’s closer now, just a breath away, his body angled toward mine in a way that makes it impossible to think of anything except the space between us, how little of it remains. The air feels charged, thick with anticipation, every second dragging into something unbearably slow. His eyes drop to my mouth, and a shiver runs through me, my entire body attuned to every tiny movement, every small shift.
“Stop me, Hailey Bean.” His fingers tighten around my wrist, not in restraint, but in something else—something questioning, something seeking. His other hand lifts, fingertips tracing along my jaw, featherlight, his touch coaxing rather than demanding.
