Page 192 of Don’t Say Mafia

He smiled then—soft and relieved and a little crooked. “Kinda ruins it if I schedule it.”

That earned a real smile from me, the tension in my chest easing enough to let the feeling in instead of shoving it away. I pressed my lips together, still aware of him in a way I hadn’t been before, like something had shifted slightly out of place and couldn’t be put back the same way.

“It was okay,” I said finally. Then, quieter, “It was . . . nice.”

His eyes warmed at that, something hopeful flickering there, careful but bright. He squeezed my hand again. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I wanted it to be . . . nice.”

The swing creaked as I leaned back, tipping my face up to the sky again, to where the stars were still scattered carelessly above us. It seemed like they should be different now, because I suddenly felt so different.

Hope was dangerous. I knew that.

But sitting there with Ryan beside me, his hand still in mine, his promise still hanging between us, I let it stay anyway.

Just for the night.

CHAPTER 1

EDEN

FIVE YEARS LATER . . .

The bedroom door creaked when I pushed it open, and I stopped short when I saw Ryan was home.

He was sprawled on the couch, passed out, one arm hanging toward the floor, the other bent awkwardly across his chest. His shoes were still on, and his jacket was draped over the armrest like it had been dropped mid-motion. Ryan’s clothes were rumpled, and the air around him carried the faint scent of stale beer and whatever bar he’d closed down.

My chest sank.

He hadn’t come home last night. I’d gone to bed alone, telling myself not to jump to conclusions, telling myself he’d probably crashed at a friend’s place, that his phone dying didn’t mean anything. I’d taken a shower this morning, letting the steam fog up the tiny bathroom mirror as I rehearsed what I’d say when he finally walked through the door.

Words were failing me now, though.

I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, taking in the sight of him like it might rearrange itself if I stared hard enough. The living room was barely big enough for the couch and the wobbly coffee table we’d found on the curb last year. Sunlight slipped through the thin blinds, landing right on his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched there and the fact that he’d seemed to age ten years since we’d moved to Las Vegas.

I shouldn’t have felt any disappointment at this point. But I did anyway. It seemed to be an inevitability nowadays.

There was a version of him who would’ve crawled into bed beside me when he’d gotten home. A version of him that would have murmured an apology into my hair and made a joke to soften the landing.

This wasn’t that version.

Exhaling tiredly, I wondered when our apartment had stopped feeling like home and instead turned into something I had to brace myself for on a daily basis.

I swiped at my face with the back of my hand, annoyed when my fingers came away damp, and turned away before I could stand there any longer. The kitchen was only a few steps away and barely deserving the name since it was nothing but a narrow counter wedged against the wall, a faucet that dripped unless you twisted the handle exactly right . . . and a small fridge and range that always sounded like they were dying.

My mood didn’t improve when I opened the fridge and saw nothing but empty shelves staring back at me. Hadn’t there been some lo mein in here when I’d gone to bed?

I shut the door harder than I meant to and glanced toward the sink. The plate from last night sat there, smeared with dried sauce, a fork tossed beside it. Of course. He’d eaten the last of it.

Pressing my forehead against the cool metal of the fridge for a second, I tried to convince myself that not eating today wouldn’t be the worst thing. After all, I’d skipped a day of food before. More times than I could count, as a matter of fact. Still, I opened the cabinet and checked that, too, even though I already knew what I would find.

Staring at the salt shaker and the mismatched mugs, my stomach clenched, not just from hunger but from how familiar this felt. Glancing at the clock, I did the math. There wasn’t time to go to the store . . . not that I had any extra money for a grocery run even if I did.

Fuck.

I straightened and smoothed my hair back, swallowing the ache in my throat along with the hunger before grabbing my bag and heading for the door. I passed the couch carefully so I wouldn’t wake him and braced myself for another day that would demand more than I had to give.

The door was halfway open when he stirred. I froze with my hand on the knob, and slowly, I turned back.

“Eden,” he murmured, my name slipping from him in a sleepy rasp. His head rolled slightly on the cushion, and his brow creased before he went still again, his breath evening out like nothing had happened.