Page 184 of Dream On, Liar

When I finally pulled back, I was breathless.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

His brow furrowed slightly. “For what?”

“For this week.”

I swallowed.

“For all of it.”

Something shifted in his expression, something that made my chest ache in a way I did not yet know how to name.

He leaned his forehead against mine.

“I’d do anything for you, chaos.”

The words hit harder than the cold rain ever could.

My breath caught at his new nickname.

His thumb brushed gently across my cheek, grounding me.

“Because you are,” he said softly, “without a doubt, my favourite person.”

I did not get the chance to answer.

He kissed me again.

And this time, I did not think about anything at all.

30

Rihaan

THE THING ABOUT SCRABBLE was that it always looked harmless at first.

Just a board, a grid of little squares, and a bag of wooden tiles with letters printed on them, as though they were nothing more than pieces of language waiting to be arranged.

But it was not harmless.

Not once you started paying attention to the scoring. Not when you realised that every word was a calculation, every placement an opportunity. Double word scores. Triple letter scores. The quiet violence of a well-placed Q without a U.

I had been tracking all of it without meaning to.

Maeve did not play as though she cared about points. She played for momentum, as though the board were something she could argue with until it eventually gave her what she wanted.

I, unfortunately, cared about both.

And I had been winning.

A triple-word score on river early in the game. A double-letter Z tucked into a corner she had not noticed in time. Small margins that had accumulated quietly, the kind of lead you only recognised once it was already difficult to catch.

Except I had been waiting for something else entirely.

Not the score.

Not the win.