Chapter 3: The Door He Shouldn't Knock On
The phone lit up.
She didn't move. Just lay there, heart pounding, watching the glow from the corner of her eye. The screen stayed bright for what felt like forever, then dimmed. A notification. One notification.
She counted to ten. Then twenty. Then she reached for it.
One message.
I know where you live.
Her breath caught. She read it again. Three words. Nothing else. No punctuation. No emoji. No indication of what he meant by that—whether it was a threat or a promise or something in between.
She typed back.
And?
Sent before she could stop herself. Before she could think about what she was doing. Before she could remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea.
The dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
She waited.
Nothing.
She set the phone down. Picked it up. Set it down again.
The minutes crawled. She stared at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster, at the way the streetlight outside cast long shadows across the walls. The apartment was too quiet. Too still. Every creak of the building felt amplified, every distant car horn a gunshot.
She checked the phone again.
Still nothing.
She threw it across the bed. Watched it bounce off a pillow and land face-down on the comforter.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
She got up. Paced to the window. Looked out at the street. Empty. Quiet. The same couple with the same dog were walking back the other way now, their silhouettes small and distant under the streetlamps.
She pulled the curtain closed.
Then she sat on the floor. Crossed her legs. Tried to breathe.
The Fleetwood Mac shirt pooled around her, soft and worn and smelling like the lavender detergent she'd bought on sale three months ago. She picked at a loose thread on the hem. Wound it around her finger. Unwound it.
The knock came three hours later.
Not loud. Not aggressive. Just a single tap against the door, firm and deliberate, the kind of knock that said I'm here and I'm not leaving.
Riley's head snapped up.
She'd been dozing. Not really sleeping. Just drifting in and out on the floor, her back against the bed frame, the phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline. The knock cut through the fog like a blade.
She didn't move.
Another knock. Same rhythm. Same restraint.
She stood up. Her legs were stiff. Her heart was racing. She walked to the door like she was walking to her own execution, bare feet silent on the hardwood, the Fleetwood Mac shirt brushing against her thighs.
She didn't check the peephole.
She just opened the door.
And there he was.
Dominic Hayes. No badge. No gun. No tailored work shirt with the department logo embroidered on the pocket. Just dark jeans that fit him too well and a plain black tee that stretched across his chest in a way that made her mouth go dry.
He looked different. Younger. Rougher. The five o'clock shadow was more like midnight stubble now, dark against his jaw. His hair was slightly disheveled, like he'd been running his fingers through it. His green eyes were fixed on her face, sharp and searching, and there was something in them she'd never seen before.
Want.
Raw and undisguised and utterly unprofessional.
Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, thick as honey, heavy as a held breath. She could smell him—soap and something woodsy, maybe cedar, maybe sandalwood. Nothing like the sterile office smell she was used to. Nothing like the gas station coffee and fluorescent lights.
He stepped inside.
She didn't stop him.
He closed the door behind him. The click of the latch sounded like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.
They stood there. Inches apart. Feet apart. A whole universe of three years between them, all the swallowed comments and unprofessional thoughts and late nights spent staring at ceilings, wondering.
His jaw worked. A muscle twitched in his cheek. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curled into loose fists, like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for her.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. Sandpaper over gravel. Nothing like the measured, professional tone he'd used in his office a thousand times.
"You have no idea how many times I had to stop myself from answering you the way I wanted to."
The words hit her like a physical blow. She felt them in her chest. In her stomach. In the space between her legs that had been aching since she'd typed his number into her phone.
She didn't respond. Didn't trust herself to speak.
Instead, she reached for the hem of her shirt.
The Fleetwood Mac fabric slid up her stomach, over her ribs, past the curve of her breasts. She pulled it over her head in one slow, deliberate motion, then let it fall to the floor.
The black-and-red lace did the talking.
His eyes dropped. Traced the lines of her body like he was memorizing them. The pale skin. The tattoo on her hip. The way the boyshorts sat low and the lace cups barely contained her.
He exhaled. Slow. Shaky. Like he'd been holding his breath for three years and was only just now letting it out.
"Riley."
Just her name. Nothing else. But it sounded like a prayer. Like a confession. Like a surrender.
She stepped forward. Closed the distance. Pressed her palms flat against his chest and felt the heat of him through the thin cotton of his shirt. His heartbeat was wild under her hands, contradicting the calm she'd always seen on the surface.
"I'm not on probation anymore," she said. Her voice was steadier than she expected. "You don't have to be careful."
Something shifted in his face. The last thread of restraint, maybe. The final wall.
His hands came up. Cupped her face. His thumbs traced her cheekbones, her jaw, the corners of her mouth. He looked at her like she was something precious. Something forbidden. Something he'd been starving for.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn't gentle.
His mouth crashed against hers, hungry and desperate, all teeth and tongue and three years of waiting. She gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound, pulling her closer, one hand sliding into her hair, the other splaying across her lower back.
She tasted like Cherry Coke and mint. He tasted like coffee and something darker, something that made her knees weak.
They stumbled backward. Her calves hit the edge of the bed, and she fell onto the fresh sheets, pulling him down with her. He caught himself on his forearms, hovering over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress in a way that felt like safety and danger all at once.
His mouth moved to her neck. Hot and open, teeth grazing her pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. She arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails leaving crescent moons in his skin through the fabric of his shirt.
"Off," she breathed. "Take it off."
He pulled back just long enough to yank the shirt over his head. Tossed it somewhere behind him. And then there was skin. Warm and firm and real.
She'd imagined this. More times than she'd ever admit. But her imagination hadn't done him justice. The broad shoulders. The defined chest. The trail of dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. A scar on his ribs, thin and pale, that she wanted to ask about but didn't.
She reached for his belt.
He caught her wrist. Pinned it gently to the pillow beside her head.
"Not yet," he said. His voice was wrecked. Hoarse. "I've waited too long for this. I'm not going to rush it."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she'd waited too, that three years of playing nice had left her aching and impatient. But the look in his eyes stopped her. Dark and determined and reverent.
He lowered his head. Kissed her collarbone. Her sternum. The valley between her breasts. His mouth was hot and deliberate, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
When he reached the lace of her bra, he paused. Looked up at her through his lashes.
"This okay?"
She almost laughed. Almost. The absurdity of him asking permission after three years of pretending he didn't want this. But the sincerity in his voice made her chest ache.
"Yeah," she whispered. "It's okay."
He unclasped the bra with one hand. Pulled it down her arms. Tossed it aside. And then his mouth was on her bare skin, tongue circling her nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
She moaned. Loud and unashamed. Her back arched off the bed, pressing herself into him, and he groaned against her breast, the vibration sending sparks straight to her core.
His hand slid down her stomach. Fingers hooked into the waistband of her boyshorts. He pulled them off slowly, dragging the lace down her thighs, over her knees, past her ankles.
She was naked now. Completely. And he was still wearing his jeans.
The imbalance should have made her feel vulnerable. Instead, it made her feel powerful. He was the one still dressed, still holding back, and yet he was looking at her like she was the one in control.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're beautiful."
She reached for him. This time, he didn't stop her.
Her fingers worked the button of his jeans. The zipper. She pushed them down, and he kicked them off, and then he was naked too. All of him. Hard and ready and pressed against her thigh.
She wrapped her hand around him.
He hissed through his teeth. His hips jerked forward, instinctive, desperate.
"Riley—"
"Shut up," she said. And pulled him down on top of her.
The first thrust was slow. Deliberate. He entered her inch by inch, watching her face, measuring her reaction. She was wet—so wet—and he slid in easily, filling her completely.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Fuck, you feel—"
She didn't let him finish. Just wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper.
He moved slowly at first. Long, deep strokes that made her toes curl. His forehead pressed against hers, breath hot and ragged, eyes never leaving her face.
"How long," she managed. "How long have you—"
"Since the first time you called me Officer Hottie." His voice was strained. "Three fucking years."
She laughed. Or tried to. It came out as a moan when he hit a spot that made her vision blur.
"Me too," she gasped. "Since—since the first appointment."
He groaned. Something broken and relieved. His pace quickened, hips snapping against hers, the sound of skin on skin filling the small apartment.
The bed creaked. The headboard knocked against the wall. She didn't care. Didn't care about the neighbors, about the noise, about anything except the way he was fucking her like he'd been starving for it.
"Harder," she demanded. "Don't be careful. I'm not going to break."
He gave her what she wanted.
His hands gripped her hips. Pulled her into each thrust. The rhythm turned brutal, desperate, all the careful control he'd worn like armor stripped away. He was just a man now. A man who'd wanted her for years and was finally, finally taking what he needed.
She came first.
The orgasm ripped through her without warning, sudden and violent, her nails raking down his back, her mouth open in a sound that was half-scream. He followed a heartbeat later, burying his face in her neck, groaning her name like it was the only word he knew.
They lay there afterward. Tangled. Sweaty. Breathless.
His weight pressed her into the mattress, but she didn't want him to move. Not yet. Not ever.
"That was—" she started.
"Yeah," he agreed. "It was."
She laughed. A real laugh this time. Bright and surprised and full of something that felt dangerously close to joy.
He lifted his head. Looked at her. The sharp edge was gone from his eyes, replaced by something softer. Warmer. His hand came up to cup her face, and he kissed her again. Gentle this time. Tender.
"I should go," he said.
She tightened her legs around him.
"No."
"Riley—"
"You just fucked me into next week. The least you can do is stay for breakfast."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he laughed. The sound was low and surprised, like he hadn't expected to be capable of it.
"Breakfast," he repeated.
"Or lunch. Or dinner. Whatever meal it is. I don't know what time it is anymore."
He checked his watch. The movement pressed his hips against hers in a way that made her shiver.
"Four in the morning."
"Then we have time."
He looked at her. At the torn posters on her walls. At the neon sign glowing in the kitchen. At the framed photo on the counter—the two of them at that godforsaken probation picnic, both of them pretending they weren't looking at each other.
"Okay," he said finally. "Okay."
He rolled off her. Settled onto his back. She curled into his side, head on his shoulder, one hand splayed across his chest.
The silence was different now. No longer heavy. No longer charged. Just comfortable. Easy.
She was almost asleep when he spoke again.
"Riley."
"Mmm."
"The things I had to stop myself from saying to you."
She opened one eye. "Yeah?"
"Three years of it. Every appointment. Every time you called me Officer Hottie and smiled at me like you knew exactly what you were doing."
She smirked. "I did know exactly what I was doing."
"I know." He shook his head. "That was the problem."
She laughed. Burrowed deeper into his side.
"So what now?" she asked. "I'm not your probationer. You're not my officer. What are the rules?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I want to find out."
She closed her eyes. Smiled against his skin.
"Okay," she said. "Let's find out."
The sun was coming up. She could see the first pale fingers of light creeping through the curtains, painting the wall in soft gold. A new day. A new chapter. A new set of rules that they were going to have to make up as they went along.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. Didn't know if this would last or fall apart or turn into something she couldn't control.
But for now, right here, with his heartbeat under her ear and his arm wrapped around her waist, she didn't care.
For now, she was free.
And so was he.
He left at noon.
She stood at the window and watched him walk to his car—a dark sedan parked half a block away, inconspicuous, practical, nothing like the man who'd pinned her to the mattress and called her beautiful.
He didn't look back. She didn't expect him to.
The apartment felt different when he was gone. Quieter. Emptier. But not in a bad way. In the way that a room felt after you'd finally cleaned it—spacious, open, full of possibility.
She made coffee. Ate half a protein bar. Stared at the framed photo on her counter.
Three years ago. The probation picnic. He'd been standing by the grill, flipping burgers with that same measured expression he always wore. She'd made a joke about his apron. He'd smiled. Just a little. Just for a second.
She'd spent the whole ride home thinking about that smile.
Now she was thinking about other things. The way he'd kissed her. The way he'd said her name. The way he'd looked at her when he thought she couldn't see.
Her phone buzzed.
She picked it up. Smiled.
I made it home. I already want to come back.
She typed back.
Then come back.
The dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Give me a few hours.
She grinned. Small and private and full of something that felt like hope.
I'll be here.
Sent.
Delivered.
Read.
She set the phone down. Poured herself another cup of coffee. Looked out the window at the world going about its business, blissfully unaware that everything had changed.
It hadn't happened the way she'd imagined. Not the gas station. Not the confession. Not the messy, tangled, sweaty reality of it all.
But it had happened.
That was the thing about freedom. You never knew what shape it would take. You just had to be brave enough to reach for it.
She reached.
And for the first time in three years, the world reached back.