About

The apartment is quiet when you slip back in, helmet under your arm, heart still racing from the ride. But Rourke is already there. Leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you with that slow, unreadable calm that's always been more dangerous than shouting. He doesn't ask where you've been. He already knows. His motorcycle. His keys. His rules - and you broke every single one. The silence stretches. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, and he says he won't tell Declan. Not if you agree to his terms. The problem is the way he looks at you when he says it. Like this was always where the two of you were headed.