Page 24 of Flashpoint
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I like you too," she finally says, the words coming out like they're being dragged from her by force. "It's terrible and inconvenient and it makes no logical sense, and my brain has been trying to talk me out of it since the warehouse, but apparently my brain doesn't get a vote."
"Apparently not."
"This is going to complicate everything."
"Probably."
"Wade is going to be insufferable."
"Almost certainly."
"And Hazel is going to lose their mind."
"I give it thirty seconds after we tell them before they've planned an entire social media campaign around our relationship upgrade."
Riley laughs again—helpless this time, the soundescaping her like she's trying to hold it back and failing. I know the feeling.
"We should probably have rules," she says, when she's recovered. "Boundaries. Professional guidelines for dating your fake-turned-real boyfriend while working in the same department."
"Very practical. I'd expect nothing less."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are." I reach across the table and take her hand. Her fingers are cold from the wine glass, and they tremble slightly against my palm. "How about we start with one rule: honesty. No more pretending. If this is real, we do it for real."
She looks at our joined hands for a long moment. Then her fingers tighten around mine.
"Okay," she says. "Real."
"Real."
The word settles between us—simple and certain.
I stand, pulling her up with me. Her eyes go wide behind her glasses, questioning, and I answer by cupping her face in my hands and kissing her.
Not for cameras. Not for Hazel's social media strategy. Not for anyone but us.
She makes a small sound against my mouth—surprise, maybe, or relief—and then she's kissingme back. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I'm not sure if I'm still breathing but I don't care. This is what I've been wanting since that moment at the warehouse, maybe before.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her glasses are slightly crooked. Her lips are swollen. She looks absolutely perfect.
"So," she says, voice unsteady. "That was..."
"Real," I finish.
"Yeah." A smile tugs at her mouth. "Definitely real."
Later—much later—we're on my couch with the wine bottle significantly emptier and Riley tucked against my side like she belongs there. Her head rests on my shoulder, and my arm is wrapped around her in a way that feels both brand new and completely natural.
"The arson cases," she murmurs, half-asleep. "I got the lab results back today. Both fires used the same accelerant. Commercial-grade lighter fluid, specific chemical signature."
"So they're connected."
"Looks like it." She yawns against my shoulder. "Same MO, same accelerant, different targets. Someone's building toward something bigger. The fires areescalating—more damage each time, more risk. Whoever this is, they're getting bolder."
"Or angrier."
