Page 80 of Her Name in Red
Something shifts in the air between us, something I don't want to examine too closely. I turn back to the TV, letting the narrator's voice wash over me. The food settles warm in my stomach, and the tension I've been carrying for days begins to ebb.
“Told you she used antifreeze,” Riggs says when they reveal the toxicology report.
“Such a fucking amateur,” I mutter, my eyelids suddenly heavy.
I don't realize I'm leaning to the side until my head connects with Riggs' shoulder. He shifts slightly, his arm coming down from the back of the couch to curl around my shoulders, tucking me against him.
“You can sleep,” Riggs murmurs, his thumb making lazy circles on my upper arm. “I'm not going anywhere.”
“Wasn't asking you to stay,” I mumble, even as I nestle closer to his warmth.
His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. “Didn’t ask me to leave either.”
I make a noncommittal sound, too tired to argue. My eyes close completely, the television's glow painting the insides of my eyelids red. I feel myself drifting, slipping toward unconsciousness.
“You don't have to run from me,” he whispers against my hair, so softly I almost think I've imagined it.
“What makes you think I'm running?” My voice is thick with fatigue.
His arm tightens infinitesimally around me. “Three days of silence. The way you look at me when you think I don't notice. Like you're trying to decide if I'm worth the risk.”
I don't answer. I can't. Because the truth is, the answer terrifies me.
Chapter 27
Maren
Stretching, I feel the familiar ache of muscles that have been still too long. The sheets beside me are rumpled and still warm. He carried me to bed. And stayed, judging by the scent of him in my bed.
I grumble into my pillow, hating how I don't actually hate it. The sound of cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen confirms he's still here, making himself at home like he belongs.
I drag myself upright, trying to ignore how my t-shirt smells like him now. Running my fingers through my tangled hair, I twist it into a messy bun as I pad barefoot across the cold floor.
When I round the corner, Riggs is standing at my counter, his back to me. He's wearing a hoodie that hangs loose on his broad frame, and a pair of his basketball shorts I've definitely seen before. The domesticity of it makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest like it usually does.
He turns, two mugs in hand, and his eyes do that thing—that slow-motion sweep from my face down to my bare legs and back up. Like he's cataloging every inch.
“Morning, nightmare.” His voice is morning-rough as he extends one of the mugs toward me.
I take it without a word; the warmth seeping into my palms. Before I can step back, he crowds me against the counter, one arm braced on either side of me. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
“You look good in my hoodie,” I say, the words slipping out before my brain fully engages.
Riggs' laugh is sudden and loud, his head tipping back. “This is my hoodie. You stole it.”
I narrow my eyes, taking a deliberate sip of coffee before responding. “If it's in my apartment, it's mine. That's how possession works.”
“Is that how it works?” His voice drops lower as he leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “Then what does that make me?”
“A trespasser,” I mutter, but there's no heat behind it.
“You sure about that?” His hand comes up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
The smell of smoke hits my nostrils before my brain fully processes what's happening.
“Your pancakes are burning,” I say, ducking under his arm to escape the cage he's made around me.
“Fuck!” Riggs spins around, lunging for the stove where a thin plume of black smoke rises from what was probably intended to be breakfast.
