Page 125 of Bitter’s Sweet

She looked at me like I had proved something, like maybe the man underneath the cut, the temper, and all the bad habits was somebody worth believing.

That scares the shit out of me.

I grab my phone and check the camera feeds. South gate clear. Garage clear. School hallway quiet. Front festival lane already has tourists wandering around with paper cups and bad decisions.

CSI texted before dawn.

Sweet's tracker history showed the highway, her motel, and the festival grounds. Separate cameras caught Ravenfork bikes on two nearby roads, and CSI was comparing the footage for any overlap. Ghoul found the black Dyna dumped behind an abandoned bait shop three miles out.

No Razor. No fresh threat. Nothing that makes me feel better.

Sweet sighs in bed and murmurs my name in her sleep.

Not Adams, careful and sweet. Not Bitter, sharp because I pissed her off.

Just Bitter, soft as a secret.

Something inside me moves toward her without asking permission.

That is the problem.

Sweet is becoming a habit.

Worse, she is becoming a want with roots.

I set the phone down harder than I mean to.

Her eyes flutter open.

For a second she looks soft and confused. Then she sees me standing there shirtless in jeans, and her smile comes slow and sleepy enough to make every bad thing in me kneel.

“Morning.”

I almost answer normal.

Almost.

Then last night flashes through my head again. Her legs around me. Her hand in mine. Her voice saying trust like she was handing me something that could break.

Fear hits, and old instinct answers.

Get distance. Get cold. Make it smaller before it gets big enough to matter.

“Get dressed. Mercy wants you at school.”

The smile flickers. Not gone, just wounded around the edges.

I see it and hate myself before she even sits up.

She pulls the blanket higher around herself, and that is worse. Last night I had every inch of her under my hands, and this morning my tone makes her cover herself.

Good job, Bitter. World-class son of a bitch.

“All right,” she says quietly.

I turn toward the kitchen because looking at her will make me fix it, and fixing it requires words I don’t own.

“Coffee’s on.”