Page 13 of Riggs
He doesn’t kiss me for that. He tightens his hand at my waist and moves us through a turn that feels like trust.
We take a table break when the trio shifts to something faster. Food arrives—steak for him, salmon for me, both more delicious than they have any right to be when my body is pure electricity. He cuts my salmon into neat bites like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until I laugh softly and steal a piece of steak off his plate in retaliation.
“Protein,” I remind him.
He gives me a look that says he both hates and respects being teased. “Eat.”
“I’m eating.”
“Eat more.”
I pop the steak bite in my mouth and make a show of enjoying it. His eyes darken in a way that makes my knees consider new religions.
A couple stops by the table—tourists with matching flannels and an aura of good intentions. “We love your videos,” the woman gushes. “Are you two?—?”
“Dating,” Riggs says, smooth as a lie and honest in a way that makes my breath catch. His arm slides around my shoulders forthe photo; his hand squeezes once at the curve of my arm, a coded check-in:you okay?
“Perfect,” the woman sighs after the flash. “You look like you belong.”
When they move on, I turn back to the only face that matters. “We do,” I say, daring myself. “Belong.”
His eyes say don’t do this to me and please don’t stop at the same time. “Eat your salmon,” he says, which is either a retreat or an invitation to survive together before we do anything else.
I eat. He drinks his coffee. The band returns to slow, and Riggs stands and without asking he pulls me toward the makeshift dancefloor. He folds me into his arms as we sway slowly together.
We talk in whispers that sound like planning and feel like flirting.
“Tomorrow, hotel ballroom,” he murmurs, breath on my cheek. “Two exits, one service corridor. We’ll enter through catering.”
“Kiss me in the kitchen,” I murmur back, because I’m not the only one allowed to set rules.
He huffs a laugh against my temple and we sway, the room blue-gold and blurred at the edges. His earpiece crackles, and he ignores it for one, two, three heartbeats before touching it with a knuckle and saying ‘all clear’ so quietly it might be a prayer.
“Tell me what scares you,” I say, because if we’re going to play pretend, I want the real person under it.
“The quiet right after you think you’re clear,” he says, no pause. “Missing something small that mattered big.”
“I’m scared of letting the camera tell my story,” I confess. “And of closing it and not recognizing my life without it.”
His hand slides up my spine. “We’ll write it ourselves,” he says. “Page by page.”
“Deal.”
The song ends. Applause patters. Rain taps a more insistent rhythm at the windows. He glances toward the terrace and tips his head. I nod.
Outside, the city smells like damp stone and freedom. We step under an awning, watching the drizzle get harder as each minute passes.
We lean against the railing, looking out at the blur of lights. Inside, the trio plays something that tastes like dark chocolate. Out here, it’s just us and the rain and the ridiculous throb of my heart in my throat.
“Dean told me to use the cover of us pretending to date,” he says quietly, answering the question I hadn’t asked out loud. “Said to make it work for us.”
“And what do you want?” I ask, because I’m done with pretending my wants are small.
His jaw goes tight, then loosens like unclenching a fist. “Both,” he says finally. “To keep you safe. And to stop pretending this doesn’t feel like it does.”
The rain makes my hair curl. His eyes track a bead of water from my temple to my jaw the way he’d track a threat, only slower, softer. I step into him until we share breath again.
“Kiss me because they’re watching,” I say, even though no one is.
