only us.

(Rike’s poems to Peyton)

The phone is sitting on the table in front of me, and I twitch, smoothing my pants down. Again. I should have set this up for anywhere but here. It occurs to me now, when it’s too late to do anything to fix it.

I let out an unsteady breath and push my hair back. Stare at the phone. He hasn’t called to cancel, so I have to assume he’s coming.

I almost scream when the knock on the door comes, even though I’m expecting it. Waiting on it. It still startles me. I shift and wheel my chair to the door and pull it open.

Rike is standing there, and for just a moment we stare at each other. His eyes are desperate and alive with hunger, raking over me.

When Rike looks at me, it’s not just seeing. He devours me with his gaze, claiming every inch of me, a familiarity that hasn’t made sense. It does now, and I feel the press of his gaze on my bare toes, up over my legs and still healing body, lingering a moment on my breasts, and finally, coming to meet my own gaze. It’s invasive, like a touch, and I want to be bothered by it more than I am. I want to slap him into submission, want to remind him that I’m not his to look at that way. But instead, I flush, and almost purr, blossoming under the scrutiny.

“Come in,” I say, and he takes a step into the room. If I were standing, we’d be pressed against each other. As it is, I’m left craning my head back to stare at something other than his crotch. I scoot my wheelchair back, retreating to the far bed, where I sleep.

He’s quiet while I maneuver from the chair to the bed. “Do you want anything? I’ve got some beer in the fridge.”

Rike’s eyebrows climb and I shrug. “I don’t like it very much, but Tommy brings random shit by.”

His features cloud. “You love beer,” he says.

I blink at him. I haven’t had a beer in years. Since high school. And I hated it.

“Who is Tommy?” he asks.

“A friend. He’s been helping me while I stay here—I’m not incredibly mobile with that thing,” I say. He nods. I could add more—explain more—but frankly I don’t think he deserves it.

“Scott and Lindsay both say you know me. They know me. And neither of them are telling me shit, because you won’t let them.”

“I have my reasons, Peyton. I need you to trust them.”

“I can’t,” I say. “I don’t know you.” He flinches and I point at him. “And see that. Right there. That tells me I should and that you aren’t willing to tell my how or why. You do realize how fucked up this is, don’t you?”

He’s quiet, staring at me.

I want to sketch that look. Because it’s stealing my breath and breaking my heart.

“I’m trying, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I need you to work with me.”

“I want to,” I confess, and his gaze darts to mine. “This is terrifying. Not knowing anything—I want to know. I want to trust that you do and you’re doing this for a reason. But I don’t know you. And I need a reason to trust you. You want me to work with you. But you’re holding all the cards, and I need you to give just a little.”

He exhales heavily and shifts. I tense and he goes still. “Can I hold you? For just a minute?”

“Why?”

“Because I miss holding you. Because seeing you and not being able to touch you is killing me. Because I don’t want to say this.”

I nod and relief brightens his features as he pushes off the wall and comes to sit next to me. Not content, he reclines against the bed, and pulls me down next to him, arranging me to fit against him. One arm props under my head, and the other wraps around my waist, his fingers playing on the skin exposed under my tank top.

I can feel him, pressed against me at all points, his scent washing over me, and his lips on my hair.

And it feels so fucking right. Tears sting my eyes.

“I met you three years ago,” he says. “You were in my bar, and I was playing the drums. And I think I loved you before we ever spoke.”

""We were in love?" I ask.

He laughs, but the noise sounds broken. Almost sick. "Yeah, baby. We were. You were my whole world."

"And Scott and Lindsay?"

"My best friend, and you were rooming with Lindsay when we met. She actually brought you to the bar that first time, and you stayed."

My nose wrinkles and I twitch my shoulders. "Why? I hate bars."

"You liked to write there, while we played. Said it was inspiration."

I roll that over in my mind, playing with it. I don't know what to think of this. Of him. I can't deny that I'm drawn to him, that everything about him sets me at ease, but there is the simple truth: Rike, with his rough hands and too long beard, and tattoos tracing over his arms and neck—Rike isn't the kind of guy I've ever been attracted to.

"Talk to me, Pey," he says softly, his grip on me tightening just a little.

I shrug. "I don't know what to say. This is so—it's a lot, Rike. A lot to swallow and understand."

"I know that."

"Why didn't you tell me when I woke up?"

"Because who you are doesn't hinge on who loves you," he answers.

I twist to look at him, searching his face. "What if I choose that the person I am doesn't love you?"

I feel the flinch move through him, shaking him as he pulls me closer. His grip is so tight now, so desperate that it hurts. But I don't complain. I just burrow closer. Because if I walk away from him, I will not have this again, and I can't deny that the thought of that is enough to make tears swim in my eyes.

"If you need to be someone who isn't with me, I'll let you go, Peyton. I'll fucking hate it. But I've never wanted to keep you caged, and I won't be that guy now. I love you, and I want you in my life. Scott and Lindsay want you in our life. She needs you. But I want you to be happy, with or without us. And I'll watch you walk away, if that is what you need for your happiness."

"I'm scared," I whisper. "I want to hide in you and let you take care of me. This—" I meet his gaze"—feels right."

Tension fills him. "But?"

"But...if I do, I'll never figure out who I was. What I loved or why. Who I was outside of the girl who loved you. And I need to know that, Rike."

Pain tightens his expression for a moment, and he blinks it away. "I can't help you?"

I hesitate, the offer so fucking tempting. And his gaze, so hopeful. "Rike," I whisper, and his gaze flares.

"Peyton, don't hate me," he murmurs, and then he's kissing me.

His lips are gentle, and the scruff of his beard is sharply abrasive as it brushes against my skin. His teeth nip at my lower lip, and I whimper. He groans and shifts, pulling me with him as he lays back. A big hand comes up to lace into my hair, holding me still as he kisses me, his tongue tangling with mine, retreating and thrusting back. His other hand is on my hip, cradling it and pulling me closer.

I groan, breaking the kiss as his erection nestles between my thighs, and I grind down against him.

Rike curses, and his lips are against my throat, warm wet kisses and soft, dirty words. I flush. What the hell. I don't do this.

His hand on my hip slips lower, over my ass, and I startle, going stiff in his arms.

And just that quickly, the moment is over. He sits up, and shoves his long hair back as I shift off of him. Sit awkwardly a few inches away.

Too fucking aware of his still-hard dick and how amazing it felt between my legs.

I'm so wet I'm almost squirming in my seat, and he's watching me with hooded, dark eyes. A smirk tugs his lips.

"I won't touch you without you asking, Peyton. But I want you to remember something. When I leave and you sink your fingers into that creamy wet pussy—I know. I know what you taste like. I know how you feel, and how you look so fucking gorgeous when you come. I know what you sound like when you scream. And I'll get off tonight, thinking about you here."