Page 242 of Reckless Obsession

Tyler freezes mid-reach for the pizza cutter. Lucas’s hand halts over the baking tray, both of them staring at me as if I had just announced an alien invasion.

“…What?” Lucas asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Did they talk? Anton and this guy?”

“Nope. Didn’t exchange a single word,” I say, my smile turning distinctly wicked. “Didn’t need to. I spent two hours watching them across the dining table. Anton couldn’t take his eyes off him, and Elio was staring right back like he wanted to devour him whole. You could have sliced the tension with a cleaver.”

Tyler lets out an audible, dramatic gasp, slapping both palms flat against the marble island.

“Oh. My. God.” Tyler whispers in absolute awe, his eyes glittering with pure, unadulterated scandal. “The plot thickens! A disgraced cam boy and the stoic mafia heir who is betrothed to his sister. Are you kidding me? That is literally poetic cinema.”

A loud, collective burst of laughter finally shatters the last traces of earlier tension, ringing out through the warm kitchen. Lucas shakes his head, helpless against our insanity, while Tyler grabs the kitchen towel and dances towards the stove, declaring he will personally cater for Anton’s inevitable, scandalous disaster of a wedding.

The pop music pulses gently overhead, the timer buzzes, and the rich scent of garlic, melted cheese, and toasted chocolate fills every corner of the room.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, the air is clean, the laughter is real, and the future—no matter how chaotic—belongs entirely to us.

❧

I ease the bedroom door shut behind me, careful with the handle even though the apartment is so quiet I could probably drop a glass and Tristan would not wake.

Or so I think.

The city glows beyond the curtains, soft bands of amber and blue bleeding through the gaps in the fabric. The room smells of Tristan, with the faint trace of his cologne caught in the sheets.

Home.

The word still feels strange when I apply it to anything.

Especially a person.

I kick off my shoes, set the paper bag of cookies on the nightstand, and climb onto the bed. The mattress sinks beneath my knees as I move closer. Tristan lies on his back, one arm thrown above his head, his chest rising slowly beneath the thin black shirt he apparently fell asleep in.

I don’t bother trying to be graceful.

I slide into the space beside him, then over him, settling my body against his. My cheek finds the center of his broad chest as naturally as if it has always belonged there. His warmth seeps through my shirt. His heartbeat thuds under my ear, deep and steady.

For the first time all day, every tight knot inside me starts to loosen.

Tristan’s arms close around me.

One wraps securely around my back; the other cups the back of my head. He cages me against him without trapping me, his lips pressing into my hair.

I smile against his warm skin. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was,” Tristan rasps, his voice rough and gravelly with sleep. “Until a loud, chaotic menace decided to use me as a mattress.”

“You love being my mattress,” I murmur, turning my head to look up at him.

Tristan’s dark eyes blink open, studying my face in the shadows. His thumb strokes lazily along my jawline.

“Are you drunk, spitfire?”

I shake my head, letting out a quiet scoff.

“I’m completely sober. Well… mostly. Tyler and I had a couple of tequila shots before I left. That’s all.”

“Right,” Tristan says, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “So you’re definitely tipsy.”

“I brought you cookies, you ungrateful giant.”