Sky's POV
I fix my lip gloss. Blot the pink off. Apply again. Breathe.
He left me panting against the sink like a goddamn scene in a banned movie, and I still have to walk back like I didn't just let my worst decision kiss me breathless in a public restroom.
My heels click back toward the table.
One foot in front of the other. Deep breaths. Soft smile.
He's not even seated yet—still leaning against a pillar with that smug I-fucked-you-up look on his face.
I glance once. Just once.
His fingers twitch against his side like he's dying to grab me again.
Down, demon.
I give him nothing. Not a glance. Not a blink.
"Everything alright, pumpkin?" my dad asks, folding his napkin.
"Perfect," I chirp, sliding back into my seat with a smile sweet enough to rot teeth. "Just a little headache. Must be the sun."
I sip my vanilla oat latte—my fake coffee, dessert in disguise. It suddenly tastes like guilt.
Dad watches me, suspicious. "You're flushed."
I shrug. "Heat, probably. Or the espresso shot."
His eyes narrow, but he lets it go.
Across the patio, Ray finally strolls back to his table, but not before shooting me a slow smirk and dragging his tongue along his bottom lip—just to be a menace.
My thighs clench under the table. My spoon scrapes the crème brûlée too hard.
Fuck you.
I text him under the table anyway.
> "You're dead. Actually. I'm gonna kill you."
His response comes immediately.
> "You already did, sweetheart. When you said 'harder' and grabbed my hair."
My hand flies to my neck. I pray to every god that my concealer's still holding.
Dad's talking stocks now, completely unaware that his perfect daughter is currently trying not to picture last night's bruises in a public restaurant.
I smile, nod, pretend to listen.
I'm Sky Valen. I wear white. I sip lattes. I lie like it's a sport.
But under the table, my phone buzzes again.
> "I want round two. Tonight."
I don't answer.
But I don't say no either.