I didn’t knock.
Didn’t slow down. Didn’t second-guess it.
I stormed into her office like something inside me had finally snapped. My blood was still boiling from the second she walked out yesterday, just dropped the words and left me standing there like a goddamn extra in her highlight reel.
She didn’t flinch.
“So that’s it?” I asked, voice sharp, chest rising and falling like I’d sprinted here. “You’re just gonna leave?”
She sat there—calm, unreadable, infuriatingly composed. “I told you yesterday.”
“You announced it,” I bit back. “Like you were reading the weather report.”
She stood slowly, her face barely shifting, her voice cool. “What do you want me to say, Lucas? That I’m not allowed to have a future without you?”
“I offered you one,” I said, stepping closer. “Right here.”
Her eyes cut through me. “And I want something more than charity from the Lucas Rivera Foundation.”
That one hurt. I felt it in my ribs. My voice cracked despite me trying to hold it steady. “It wasn’t charity. It was a chance—for us. For you to build something real without leaving.”
She swallowed hard. I saw her jaw tighten, the flicker in her expression before she said it.
“You had a chance for us,” she said. Soft. Sharp. Devastating. “Years ago.”
“And I was stupid,” I said immediately. “But I’m here now. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
She turned her back to me, grabbed a file off her desk just to put something between us. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t want me to see it. “Too late, Lucas.”
My fists clenched at my sides. “Why are you punishing me for making a mistake when we were kids?”
She spun, fire in her eyes. “Because that mistake broke me!”
I froze. Not defensive. Just still. Because I knew she was right. I knew exactly what I did.
And I stepped forward slowly. Not with swagger. Not with apologies.
Like she was something fragile. Something I’d already shattered once.
“Then let me fix it,” I whispered, low and raw.
My hand slid to her waist. Familiar. Natural. Like my body didn’t care how many years had passed—it still remembered where she fit.
She didn’t shove me away.
But she should’ve.
“Lucas…” Her voice cracked. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” I murmured. “You don’t want me to?”
She didn’t answer.
And that was the problem.
“Because you always do this,” she whispered. “You leave. You ruin me. Then you kiss me like you never meant any of it.”
My fingers tightened at her waist. “I never stopped meaning it. You think I don’t wake up every night wishing I could take it all back?”
“You don’t get to say that,” she choked. “You don’t get to touch me like you mean it now.”
I leaned my forehead against hers. “Then tell me to stop. Tell me to walk away. I’ll do it. But don’t lie to me, Riley.”
She didn’t say a word.
So I kissed her.
Hard. Desperate. Like I needed her breath to keep mine steady. Like every word I couldn’t say had to be swallowed between her lips.
She didn’t pull back.
She pulled me closer.
Her arms flew around my neck like her body had never forgotten what it meant to hold me. I groaned into her mouth, her fingers slipping into my hair, dragging me deeper. My hand slid up her spine, memorizing the way she melted, the way she pressed into me like she was furious she still needed this too.
“You still taste the same,” I muttered against her mouth, breath ragged. “Like cherry lip balm and unfinished business.”
She gasped, pulling back an inch. “You’re such an asshole.”
“And yet you’re still kissing me.”
She was. And I was kissing her right back—deeper, rougher, more reckless now. I caught her bottom lip between my teeth, swallowed her whimper like it was mine.
My hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek before gripping her like I couldn’t let go.
“This shouldn’t be happening,” she said, breathless.
“Then stop me.”
She didn’t.
She kissed me like it was a fight, like she wanted to burn the memory of me into her lungs before she walked away again.
And when we finally broke apart—foreheads pressed together, both of us gasping—I could feel the space we were trying so hard to deny closing in.
“Riles…” I said, hoarse.
She looked up at me—really looked. Her lips were red. Her eyes glassy. Her pulse still racing.
“I hate how you do this,” she whispered.
“Do what?”
“Make me want to stay.”
A silence fell between us—thick, sharp, unforgiving.
“Then don’t go,” I said, barely above a whisper.
She stepped back.
Once. Twice.
And I knew.
The moment she looked down and not at me—I knew.
She was still leaving. And there was nothing I could do to stop her.