Page 130 of Ace of Spades

Against every motherfucker who said we were dead and buried.

SKC is alive.

And we’reundeniablyhere.

* * *

The hours after pass in a blur.

Interviews. Photos. Handshakes.

The crew sticks close together, taking turns pulling Sienna to the front whenever reporters try to shove a mic into my face.

“She’s the captain now,” I say more times than I can count. “She made it happen. Not me.”

And God, the way she shines when she smiles and accepts it—it kills me a little.

Because I know. No matter how much I want her… I’m already a ghost standing in the ruins of what I could’ve had.

* * *

That night, after the noise quiets, after the last camera clicks off, I find myself outside her door.

Heart pounding harder than it had even during the competition.

I raise my hand.

Knock once. Twice.

The door creaks open.

She’s standing there in a simple T-shirt and shorts, barefoot, hair damp from a shower.

Vulnerable. Beautiful.

Mine.

But not for long.

"One night," I say, voice hoarse. "Just tonight. Let’s pretend."

She doesn't hesitate.

She pulls me inside.

The second the door clicks shut, I have her pressed against it, my mouth devouring hers, hands roaming over every curve like I'm trying to memorize her by touch alone.

Her fingers tear at my shirt, yanking it over my head.

I lift her, carrying her to the bed without breaking the kiss, laying her down like she’s made of glass and the most precious thing I’ve ever held.

We strip each other in a rush of hands and mouths and breathless laughter that dies into soft, desperate sighs.

I take my time with her.

Slow.

Worshipful.

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