The dock is nearly empty when River leads you out, the music from Hidden Harbor muffled behind closed doors. The night smells like brine and salt, the air heavy with heat. He leans against one of the posts, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you like he’s trying not to.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges.

You fold your arms, meeting his gaze. “Neither should you.”

That earns the ghost of a smile from him, but it doesn’t last. His jaw flexes as he looks away, dragging a hand through his hair before his eyes find yours again. There’s tension coiled in him, in the way his shoulders tighten, in how close he stands without touching.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble this is?” he murmurs. His words are sharp, but the way his eyes drop to your mouth betrays him.

You take a step closer, the dock groaning beneath your weight. “Then why haven’t you walked away yet?”

River exhales, shaky, like he’s been holding his breath for too long. His hand comes up, hesitates in the space between you, then finally presses against the edge of your jaw, thumb skimming your cheek. It’s not gentle — it’s desperate, like he’s fighting with himself even as he gives in.

“You drive me insane,” he admits, his forehead brushing yours. His voice is taut, straining. “I keep telling myself to stop thinking about you, and then you look at me like that—” His other hand fists at his side, like he doesn’t trust himself to let go.

The heat between you builds, unbearable in its closeness. His lips hover just shy of yours, the restraint in him vibrating like a wire pulled too tight.

“Say something,” he whispers, the words breaking out of him, like he needs you to tip the scale one way or the other.