Savannah

The rain had turned savage.

Fat drops pelted the windshield like a personal attack. The windows were already fogged from our shared breath and the electric heat radiating between us. But I barely noticed the world outside.

Not with Roman’s hands tangling in my hair. Not with the way he reached for me as if he were one second away from shattering his own iron-clad control.

The restraint he’d practiced for years—the "best friend" mask—was gone. In its place was something raw and hungry. When he pulled me into his lap, the movement was breathless and desperate. My dress hiked up as he held me close, his touch possessive, trailing fire across every inch of skin he could reach.

"You're insane," I breathed against his lips.

"I’m done watching him look at you like you belong to his past," Roman rasped, his voice a dark, jagged vibration. "You’re not his, Savannah. You never were."

The sound of the rain drumming against the roof became a heartbeat. The world shrank to the confines of the car, thick with the scent of leather and the intoxicating gravity of Roman. When his mouth met mine, it wasn't a question—it was a claim.

I felt the barrier between us dissolve. Every touch was an admission of five years of unspoken longing. I reached for him, my fingers trembling as I sought the reality of him beneath the tailored fabric of his clothes. There was no more "show," no more "fake fiancé." There was only the crashing realization that we were standing on the edge of a cliff, and we were both ready to jump.

He moved us to the backseat, his orders low and leaving no room for doubt. The leather was cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the fever burning in my blood.

When he finally pulled me into him, the impact was enough to make the stars behind my eyelids explode. It was deep, grounding, and utterly overwhelming. For a heartbeat, the world went silent—just the sound of the storm and our ragged gasps.

He moved with a fierce, driving intensity, his hands anchoring me to him as if he were afraid I’d vanish if he let go. Every motion was a word he hadn't said—a promise, a secret, a claim.

"Mine," he growled against the shell of my ear, his grip on my waist unyielding. "You hear me? You’ve always been mine."

My mind was a whirlwind of sensation. I couldn't speak; I could only cling to him as the rhythm of the storm matched the rhythm of our bodies. He leaned me forward, my hand pressing against the fogged window, leaving a blurred palm print on the glass as he drove home the truth of what we were to each other.

It was rough, it was beautiful, and it was entirely unforgivable.

The tension that had built up since the moment he stepped off that plane in New Hope snapped. I felt the world tilt, my body spasming as the peak hit me like a physical wave. Roman let out a guttural sound, his forehead resting against my shoulder as he finally gave in, pouring every ounce of his restraint into me.

Then—silence.

The rain continued to lash the car, but the storm inside had settled into something heavy and permanent. Roman didn't move for a long time, his breath warming my neck, his hands still lingering on my hips as if he were afraid to break the spell.

He pulled back slowly, his eyes searching mine in the dim, amber light. His hand moved to my jaw, turning my face toward him. "You okay?" he murmured, his voice hoarse with an emotion I couldn't quite name.

I nodded, though it was a lie. I wasn't okay. My world had just fundamentally shifted.

I stayed there, my forehead against the cool, wet glass, listening to the drum of the rain. The shift was internal—a door had locked behind us, and there was no key to go back.

As I sat there in the quiet of the car, with my heart still crashing against my ribs and the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin, only one thought remained, echoing like a warning:

I just crossed the line with my best friend.

And I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that nothing would ever be the same again.