#oceansideca

You knew Andrew wasn’t where he said he’d be. He had that look in his eyes when he left earlier, the one that meant secrets and trouble. And you couldn’t shake the knot in your stomach, the gnawing need to know.

So you tracked him.

The little dot on your phone pulsed on the map, leading you straight across Oceanside. And when you finally spotted him, leaning against his truck outside some bar, talking to a woman who was laughing way too hard at whatever he’d said—your chest burned.

You didn’t think, you just moved.

“Really, Pope?” you snapped, stepping into the glow of the streetlight.

His head jerked up, eyes widening when he saw you. The woman’s smile faltered, and she muttered something before slipping back inside the bar.

Pope’s jaw tightened. “The hell are you doin’ here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you shot back, shoving your phone at him, the screen still lit with his location. “You think I wouldn’t check? You think I wouldn’t find you?”

His nostrils flared, a dangerous edge creeping into his stance as he stepped closer, towering over you. “You track me now? That what we’re doin’?”

“Don’t turn this on me, Andrew,” you hissed, heart hammering. “You’re mine. You don’t get to play games with me.”

For a moment, neither of you breathed. Then, Pope grabbed your face in both hands and crushed his mouth against yours, rough and possessive. The kiss tasted like anger, like jealousy, like both of you burning each other alive.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice was low and raw.

“You don’t need to track me, baby. I’m not goin’ anywhere. You hear me? You’re stuck with me. And if I ever catch you doubtin’ that again—” his hand slid down to your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch, “—you’ll regret it.”