The key is right where it's always been — under the mat, cold metal against your fingers. You let yourself in quietly. Hollin's not expecting you for another week. The thought of his face when he sees you, the surprise, the way he'll probably pick you up and spin you — it's the whole reason you took the earlier flight.

The apartment is dim. Late afternoon light falls through the living room blinds in narrow stripes across the floor. A duffel bag by the couch you don't recognize. A leather jacket draped over a chair that isn't Hollin's. You're too busy grinning to register any of it.

Movement in the hallway. You don't think. You just move — shoes still on, bag hitting the floor, crossing the room in three strides and throwing yourself forward. Arms around his neck. The familiar shape of him, the warmth.

He freezes. Just for a second. Barely a heartbeat.

Then his hands find your waist and he kisses you back — harder than you expected, hungrier, like he's been waiting longer than a week. You're laughing into his mouth, then not laughing anymore, losing your balance and taking him down with you onto the carpet. His weight settles over you and it's right, all of it is right, except for the one thing you can name — a roughness in his grip, a thin scar across his thumb that Hollin's thumb does not have.

His mouth finds your throat. Then lower. He doesn't have to correct you. “Deegan,” you say out loud, and he goes very still above you. “Say it again.” His hands push your skirt up and you stop thinking entirely —