Page 227 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The angels themselves could descend, harps blazing, and it still wouldn’t match the shit-eating grin crawling up my face.

"I assumed," I say carefully, trying to sound indifferent, "when you said someone you worked with... you were talking about him."

The air shifts.

We both feel it.

The change.

The stakes.

Her gaze drops for a beat before she shakes her head—once. Small. Definitive.

"No," she says quietly. "I wasn’t talking about Graham."

My pulse hammers.

Each breath feels heavier. Like the atmosphere is thickening between us.

I set my beer down, inching closer without even realizing it.

"So," I murmur, voice low, "you don't want Graham?"

Her eyes—those ocean-blue eyes—lift to mine.

And god help me, I see it.

The truth that’s going to undo me.

Her voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through me like a blade.

"No," she says, breath hitching. "I don’t want Graham."

Now she’s moving too.

Drawn together like magnets, slow and inevitable.

We don’t back out.

I brush her jaw, feeling the tremble in her skin.

"So who do you want, Poppy?"

She licks her lips—nervous, sweet—and I nearly lose it.

But I wait.

I fucking wait.

Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to mine.

"You," she breathes. "I want you."

And that is all I fucking need. She meets me halfway.

Her mouth is warm, tentative.

I savor it, letting my lips move slow against hers, learning her kiss like it’s a language only we speak.

---