Alex:
The night was thick with the kind of quiet that always comes after a storm. Luke’s arm was heavy across my waist, his skin still damp from the heat we’d burned through an hour ago. The sheets smelled like distinctly him—clean sweat, gun oil, a trace of cologne from the jacket he’d left tossed across the chair.
I wasn’t ready to move. Not from the weight of him, not from the slow, lazy slide of his breath against the back of my neck. The cuffs he’d finally taken off lay on the nightstand like a dare neither of us would admit we loved.
His radio cracked alive.
Static, then a sharp voice: “Unit Twelve requesting backup at Barrow Street. Immediate.”
Luke tensed. It was the kind of instant readiness that never really left him, a coil of muscle and instinct. He muttered a curse into m
