Page 31 of Playing Rough

He studies me for a long, uneasy moment. "You sure that's a good idea?"

My palms prickle with sweat, but I force a casual shrug. "Up to you. No pressure either way."

Riot's expression gives away nothing of his inner deliberations. The offer hangs heavily between us. Just when I'm sure he'll refuse, he exhales roughly.

"Yeah, alright. Beats sticking around here solo."

I blink, blindsided. "For real?"

Riot brushes past me to grab a protein shake from the fridge, that faint smirk playing about his lips.

"Don't make me change my mind, Hotshot."

Ignoring my racing pulse, I lift my chin. "Wouldn't dream of it, Golden Boy."

We lock eyes, the weight of this leap into the unknown passing between us. I wonder if I just lit the accelerant on whatever's smoldering out of control between us.

But when Riot turns away, the set of his shoulders looks looser somehow. Like he's equally relieved at the prospect of a chance to clear the chaos choking the air we share.

Or maybe he’s just as excited as I am to not have to spend a week apart wondering what the other person’s doing… or if they’re thinking about you.

Fuck, I’m glad he’s coming. I think I might miss the asshole if he wasn’t.

I blow out a long breath as I retreat to my room, nerves and anticipation coursing through me in equal measure. However this plays out over the break, one thing's for damn sure—Riot’s about to get a deep dive into my life in a way no one else ever has.

And I think I might like it.

13

RIOT

The rumbleof my Maserati's engine fades as we roll to a stop outside a weathered three-story walk-up in Westbrook Heights. Engine idling, I take in the peeling paint, barred windows, and neglected courtyard with its browned grass and empty swing set.

It's a far cry from my family's expansive estate in the wealthy suburbs. For all the money and privilege I was born into, I know nothing of the resilience required to thrive in a place like this. A twinge of unease penetrates my designer clothes and privileged mindset.

Beside me, London shifts, eyes trained forward. "Home sweet home," he mutters.

I glance over, surprised by the defensiveness in his tone. Like he's daring me to judge this place that shaped him.

"It suits you," I offer sincerely. The quiet strength embodied by these buildings perfectly mirrors the steely determination I’ve come to admire in London.

He responds with a complicated smile, but his shoulders relax a bit.

Grabbing our bags, we make our way inside. The stairwell carries a medley of cooking spices, marijuana smoke, and laundry detergent. Muffled salsa music and argumentative voices drift from behind closed doors. The building thrums with working-class life.

On the third floor, London unlocks the last door and steps back for me to enter. "Mom, we're here!" he calls out.

My palms prickle strangely as I follow him inside. Meeting his family feels oddly... intimate. Significant. I wish I could tell him how much this means, that he's letting me into this part of himself. But the words stick in my throat.

The living room is modest but homey, with a squashy floral sofa and paintings by local artists. Framed photos cover every surface, a visual tapestry of London's life.

Before I can examine them, quick footsteps rush our way. A petite woman with London's hazel eyes and a younger boy who's nearly his spitting image hurry over.

"There's my boy," his mom gushes, pulling London into a fierce hug he returns just as tightly. His obvious adoration makes warmth bloom in my chest.

The younger one eyes me curiously as they separate. London clears his throat. "Uh, so this is my friend from school, Riot."

Friend. Right. I swallow my inexplicable pang of disappointment. What was I hoping for, London to introduce me as his boyfriend? The thought catches me off guard. Since when does the wordboyfriendin relation to London Lancaster make my heart race?

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