She blinks up at me, lips slightly parted.

"You smell good," she mumbles, swaying just slightly. "Like… leather, and wood, and…" She squints, trying to summon the right word. "Mulch."

"Mulch?"

"Yeah," she nods, very seriously. "You know, like when it rains and the mulch is fresh and it smells kinda spicy and earthy and… good?"

I’m still stuck on mulch.

"And pure man. Or maybe pure sex. Yeah. That."

I freeze.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I don't react.

Because if I do, I might do something very, very stupid.

I step back and shut the door.

Breathe, Callahan.

Then I get into the driver's seat, start the car, and drive her home.

I don't need directions.

Obviously.

I've known where she lives for a while now.

Still, as I take the familiar turns toward Hoboken, guiding her car through the Lincoln Tunnel that connects Manhattan to New Jersey, she stirs in the seat, murmuring sleepily. The lights of the tunnel flash overhead in a rhythmic pattern, casting alternating shadows and illumination across her face.

"Wait," she slurs, blinking slowly at the windshield. "How do you know where I live?"

I should lie.

I should say something generic, non-threatening, non-psychotic.

But she's too drunk to remember this conversation.

And maybe—just maybe—I like the idea of telling her the truth and getting away with it.

So I glance at her, lips curving just slightly.

"I know a lot of things about you, pretty girl."

She hums, smiling sleepily.

"Of course you do," she mumbles, like it makes perfect sense.

Then she closes her eyes again.

And I keep driving.

We emerge from the tunnel, the Manhattan skyline glittering behind us across the Hudson River. I navigate the streets of Hoboken, where brownstones and apartment buildings line the sidewalks. The area still retains traces of its Italian-American heritage, with family-owned delis and restaurants nestled between newer developments.

I pull into her parking lot and cut the engine. I just sit there and breathe, staring ahead. Then I glance over at Izzy. She's completely slouched in the seat, her head resting against the window, her breath fogging up the glass.

I exhale through my nose. "Come on, drunk girl. Let's get you inside."

She mumbles something incoherent as I step out and walk around to her side. When I open the door, she blinks up at me, confused. "Are we home?" she asks, her voice soft and sleep-heavy.

Home.

Something about the way she says it makes my chest clench. I clear my throat. "You are. Come on."

She reaches for me without hesitation, arm looping around my shoulder as I haul her out of the car. She presses close—pliant, radiating heat—her body folding into mine like she belongs there.

She lets out a contented sigh. "You're comfy."

I snort. "Glad I could be of service."

I help her up the steps to her apartment, half-carrying her when she stumbles. Her building is one of the older ones in the neighborhood, with high ceilings and ornate moldings visible through the foyer windows. Then, just as I'm about to unlock the door for her, she suddenly stops and looks up at me with those big, tequila-bright eyes.

"Wait. How'd you get here?" she asks, swaying slightly. "Did you drive?"

"I drove your car," I remind her patiently.

She frowns, her brow furrowing adorably. "But how are you getting home?"

I hadn't thought that far ahead. "I'll call an Uber."

"Where's your car?"

"I don't have a car," I reply.

Her eyes widen. "You just WALK everywhere?"

I resist the urge to pat her head. "No. I have a bike."

She scrunches her face. "Like, with pedals?"

I chuckle. "No. Like with an engine."

Her eyes widen. "You have a motorcycle?"

"Yeah. A Ducati."

Then suddenly she sighs dramatically.

"What is it?" I ask her.

She points at me unsteadily. "Amanda said you had to ride something dangerous. She bet me twenty dollars. I just lost twenty dollars."

"And what exactly did you think I drove?"

She waves her hand dismissively, nearly losing her balance in the process. "Details, details." Then her expression shifts, suddenly serious in that exaggerated way drunk people get when they've just had an important thought. "My Nonna would have a heart attack if she knew I was friends with a guy on a death machine."

I bite back a laugh. "Death machine?"

"That's what Nonna calls them." She nods solemnly, then reaches up to pat my cheek. Her touch lingers on my skin. "Gonna need to get you Nonna's rosary."

I still. "What?"

"Nonna's special rosary," she explains, leaning heavily against me. "The one with the—the blue beads. S'posed to keep you safe. She gave it to me when I started driving. Always worked for me." She taps my chest with her finger. "You need it more. Death machine guy."

Something in my chest tightens at her drunken concern. "You'd give me your Nonna's rosary?"

She nods again, more emphatically this time. "Course. Can't have you dying on that thing." Her voice drops to a whisper, like she's telling me a secret. "I kinda like having you around, Callahan."

Before I can process that—or the warmth spreading through my chest—she suddenly gets a second wind.

"Okay, I'm gonna change," she announces, perking up. Before I can react, her hands are at the hem of her dress.

I freeze.

"Whoa—Izzy."

She shimmies the fabric up her thighs, her fingers inching higher.

Oh, fuck no.

I grab the door handle, shove it open, and all but push her inside.

She laughs, stumbling forward.

Then, with zero shame, she reaches back, grabs the zipper of her dress, and starts dragging it down.

I slam the door shut.

Hard.

My jaw is so fucking tight I think I might break a tooth.

Jesus Christ.

I press my forehead against the door, inhaling deep, slow, measured breaths. The wood is cool against my skin, pulling me back from the edge—just enough. I need to get my shit together.

Because now I'm in her apartment.

Now I'm in her space.

And everything smells like her. The vanilla and floral scent that clings to her skin seems to permeate the entire apartment, filling my lungs with every breath. I push off the door and make my way toward her.

"You, there," I say, nudging her into her bedroom, guiding her in before she can get herself into even more trouble.

She stumbles forward, laughing under her breath.

And fuck me, I want to follow.

I want to step inside, close the door, press her up against it.

I want to drag that dress off her myself.

Take my time with it. Undo the zipper slowly, feel her shiver under my hands, let my fingers trace every inch of bare skin I reveal.

Jesus.

I grip the doorframe tighter.

Not tonight.

Not like this.

"You get decent," I tell her, voice gruffer than I mean it to be.

She half-turns, lazily lifting a brow. "Define decent."

I shut the door in her face.

Hard.

Her laugh rings out from the other side, muffled but unmistakable.

I scrub a hand down my face, forcing myself to back away, to put distance between me and the very, very stupid ideas forming in my head.

No way. Not tonight.

Not when she's drunk off her ass and stripping like it's my own personal test of restraint.