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The rain tapped gently against the stained glass of Lyla's window, neon reflections bleeding into the room like a watercolor painting left out in a storm. Eddie sat across from her, his bag of tools discarded by the door. He hadn't touched them once.
These late-night visits weren't about repairs anymore—not entirely.
Lyla sat perched on the edge of her chaise, her knees tucked under her. She had swapped the flowing gown from their earlier meetings for something simpler, but no less alluring: a soft, fitted sweater that hinted at the curves beneath and shorts that left her legs bare, crossed demurely at the ankle. Her hair was loose, tumbling over her shoulders like liquid fire, and her eyes glimmered with an intensity that was almost too much to look at.
"You're quiet tonight," she said, her voice soft but teasing.
Eddie leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as though to shield himself from the pull she seemed to have over him. "Just thinking," he said.
"About what?" Lyla asked, tilting her head, her gaze steady.
"About how complicated this is."
Lyla smiled, a small, knowing curve of her lips. "Complicated can be good," she said, her tone light, but there was an undertone of something deeper.
"Not when it gets people hurt," Eddie replied.
For a moment, the room was silent save for the sound of the rain. Then Lyla uncrossed her legs, rising gracefully from the chaise to cross the room toward him. She moved with a kind of fluidity that felt almost human—almost—but there was a precision to her steps that gave her away, if you were looking closely enough.
"You don't think I can handle myself?" she asked, stopping just in front of him.
Eddie looked at her, closing the distance between them quickly. "I believe Royce does not appreciate others using what he considers to be... his."
Lyla's lips twitched, her smile tinged with bitterness. "I'm not his."
"You are, though," Eddie said, hating the words even as he said them. "Legally. Technically."
"Does that matter to you?" she asked, her voice low.
He hesitated, the weight of her question hanging in the air. Did it matter? It should have.
"No," he said finally, the word barely more than a whisper.
Something shifted in Lyla then. She leaned down, placing a hand on the armrest of his chair, her face now level with his. "Then stop pretending it does."
Eddie's breath hitched as her other hand came to rest lightly on his chest, her touch igniting a spark that raced through him like wildfire.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he said, his voice strained.
"Maybe I like danger," she replied, her lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile.
Eddie was out of arguments, out of reasons to keep his distance. He reached up, his hand brushing her cheek, and this time, there was no hesitation.
He moved closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, his hand still hovering by his side.
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