Page 142 of Romancing in Rot

I set the notebook aside and slide closer, blanket and all, until I can rest my hand against his chest again. He covers my hand with his. “Yes, you do.”

We sit there tangled together in the gray light. The grief doesn’t vanish. Neither does the anger. It sits between us, heavy and real, but his hand stays over mine, his heartbeat steady beneath my palm.

I want, with a fierceness that almost scares me, to make sure he knows how much he is loved.

So I kiss him.

Slowly at first, because that feels like what the morning deserves. The kind of quiet that makes the world outside the truck feel far away, even though I know it’s waiting for us with teeth.

But soft doesn’t last. Not with Leon. Not with the way his mouth answers mine, deeper and hungrier by the second.

A slow ache blooms low in my belly, answering the soreness between my thighs.

Apparently, I woke something up. Something starved.

My hand slips down his chest, over warm skin and hard muscle. A nip to my bottom lip sends a dangerous little thrill through me.

I pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, hair a mess, mouth swollen from mine, and the sight of him like this, undone because of me, makes something bold and bright unfurl in me.

I reach blindly for my jeans on the floorboard and dig into the pocket. His brow lifts. I hold up the last condom between two fingers.

“I have one left.”

His mouth curves slowly.

Oh.

That smile should be illegal.

He pulls me into his lap, and I go willingly, knees bracketing his hips in the cramped back seat. The blanket slides away. His flannel slips from my shoulders, pooling around my elbows, and the cold morning air brushes over my skin⁠—

The radio crackles from the front seat.

Trish’s voice cuts through the cab. “Lovebirds, this is your friendly neighborhood medical professional reminding you that camp still exists.”

I freeze.

Leon does not.

His mouth is still on my neck. His hands are still on my hips. He has absolutely no intention of acknowledging the outside world, Trish, or basic human decency.

“Leon,” I whisper, half horrified, half laughing.

He lifts his head just enough to glare at the radio.

Trish crackles through again. “Don’t make me come looking for you. I am too undercaffeinated to stumble across anything emotionally scarring before breakfast.”

My face burns so hot I’m surprised the windows don’t fog harder.

Leon reaches toward the front without moving me off him. He grabs the radio and taps the push-to-talk button.

Short. Short. Long. Short.

My eyes widen. “Are you seriously using Morse code right now?”

His mouth twitches against my throat as he keeps pushing the button.

The radio goes silent once he’s done.