Wright:
The moment I walk into the apartment, she’s there.
Emma is wrapped in my hoodie, curled on the couch as she belongs in this space — like she’s claimed it, claimed me, and the universe simply nodded its permission. Her hair is messy, her smile sleepy but warm, and it hits me so hard my knees actually weaken.
She stands, walks to me, and I catch her against my chest like I’ve been drowning somewhere outside and finally dragged myself back to the air.
Her lips meet mine.
Slow.
Sweet.
Then hungrier.
I kiss her like she’s oxygen and I’ve been choking.
I’m about to lift her onto the counter, about to lose myself in her—
The phone buzzes.
Dean Harrow.
The name is a punch.
Emma feels me stiffen. She pulls back, eyes searching mine, worry twisting her expression. “Take it. It m
