Page 164 of Revv

Just like that.

No pushing. No trying to turn it into something bigger because I gave him an inch.

And somehow, that makes the tightness in my chest ease even more.

****

We spend the afternoon walking with absolutely nowhere to be, which might be the first time since getting to Miami that nobody is trying to throw me out of a plane, strand me in the ocean, or kill me with adrenaline.

Revel’s hand stays wrapped around mine as we move down the sidewalk, his thumb brushing over my knuckles every so often like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. I do realize. Unfortunately.

The streets closer to the water are packed, all bright storefronts, little cafés spilling tables onto the sidewalk, souvenir shops crammed with neon shirts and shit nobody needs, tiny boutiques with dresses hanging in the windows that cost more than my monthly grocery bill.

Palm trees throw broken patches of shade across the pavement, and every time the breeze comes in off the ocean, it carries salt and enough relief from the humidity to stop me from bitching for at least thirty seconds.

Probably.

Revel, meanwhile, has apparently decided this is a motorcycle sightseeing tour.

He stops for every fucking one.

Parked outside restaurants. Cruising past us. One ancient thing chained near a curb that looks like it survived three hurricanes and a felony.

I stare at it. “That is literally tetanus with handlebars.”

“It has potential.”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head but in typical Revel fashion, he pulls out his phone and takes a picture anyway.

I tug his hand and keep walking. “Come on, Bob the Builder.”

He laughs and lets me drag him along, only to turn his head when another bike passes two seconds later.

“Ay, Dios mío. Do you need to stop and sniff the exhaust too?”

“Depends what it is.”

“You’re so embarrassing.”

“Says the woman holding my hand in public.”

I look down at our joined hands.

Then back at him.

“Yeah well, I seem to have had a temporary lapse in judgment.”

“Been having a lot of those lately, Mama.”

I squeeze his fingers hard enough to make the point, and he just grins.

So fucking annoying.

But this version of him is different from the one I first met at the garage. He’s still cocky as fuck and, apparently, incapable of letting a motorcycle exist near him without conducting a visual inspection, but he isn’t performing for me anymore.

He doesn’t keep pushing for reactions the way he used to. No constant little comments just to see if he can get under my skin, no hovering around waiting for me to look at him.

He doesn’t have to anymore.