“Ray, that really isn’t necessary—”
“It is for me.” The words come out rougher than I intended and her expression shifts slightly. I step closer, lowering my voice. “Please. For my peace of mind.”
She studies me for a long second before sighing in defeat. “Fine,” she mutters, giving a small nod.
Relief loosens something tight in my chest. “Good girl.”
The second the words leave my mouth, Wynter’s eyes widen, and then her cheeks pink slightly.
I smirk, opening the door. “After you,” I say casually.
The casino is still alive behind us, music and laughter spilling out onto the pavement as we step into the cool night air.
“The best thing about London,” Wynter says, sidestepping a drunken couple arguing beside a taxi, “is that it never really sleeps.”
“You should see New York.”
“And yet,” she replies, glancing up at the glowing skyline around us, “London’s prettier at night, so who needs New York?”
I laugh softly. “One day I’ll take you and let you compare properly.”
A smile tugs at her lips, small but genuine, and something in my chest shifts again. I’m beginning to realise I’d do almost anything just to keep putting that expression on her face.
“I’m starving,” she groans dramatically a second later.
“You ate just hours ago.”
She arches a brow. “I’m growing a human.”
I huff out another laugh. “Fair point. We can order food when we get back. I’ll have the kitchen send something up.”
“Or . . .” Her eyes brighten mischievously as she hooks her arm through mine. “I can show you my secret late-night haunt.”
I narrow my eyes immediately. “Why do I already hate the sound of that?”
“Because it isn’t somewhere you’d usually go.”
“But you do?”
She shrugs. “Sometimes the best places are the ones people overlook.” She drags me down a side street before I can argue.
Five minutes later, we stop outside a run-down twenty-four-hour café with a flickering neon sign in the window. I stare at it sceptically. It screams trouble. The kind of place drunks, dealers and desperate people gather because nowhere else is open.
I know because I used to spend nights in places exactly like this waiting for drops when I was younger.
“Don’t judge before you try the bacon baps,” Wynter says smugly before pushing the door open.
Warm air and the smell of grease hit instantly. A group of teenagers glance up from the back booth. Two women by the window openly eye me as we walk past.
Wynter heads straight for the counter like she owns the place. “Two coffees,” she tells the exhausted-looking guy behind the till. “And two bacon baps.”
He shuffles towards a teetering stack of chipped mugs.
Wynter digs into her pocket, pulling out coins and a crumpled five-pound note before carefully counting them onto the counter.
Then she heads for a booth.
I follow more cautiously.