And I’m never fucking letting her go.
ChapterOne Hundred Eighteen
Kit
October 8th, 1997
It’s midnight.We’re in Roderick’s bed, tangled in sheets that still smell like sex and something sweeter—like skin and home.The world feels far away except for the low hum of Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.”
Roderick kisses my temple, his lips warm and barely there.“What would you be doing if you weren’t here?”
“Probably creating a top five list of something and posting it on some chat,” I whisper.“Messaging you.Or debating something absurd with Allegra?—”
I sit up abruptly, sheets falling from my chest.“Shit.She’s going to hate me.I left her hours ago.”
Roderick props himself up on an elbow, the lines of his body catching the moonlight like sculpture.“We could crash the party across the street.If you need to go to her.”
“I could just go,” I say, but it lands like a lie.My chest pulls tight, like I’m trying to peel myself away from my skin.I don’t want to leave him.Not now.Not after this.
“You sure?”he asks, voice low and unreadable.“You want to go for her?We can bring her here.Whatever you need.”
“No, I ...”I shake my head slowly, trying to find air that doesn’t taste like regret.“She needs time to get used to a new place.Maybe ...if you don’t mind coming to my apartment for the rest of the night.Or ...”
His brow lifts.
“You trying to figure out a way to ditch me, Kit?”
“Probably,” I admit, even though we both know I’m full of shit.“It’s complicated.What if—” I pause, breath catching.“I’m not sure if I can do it.Leave you after ...this.”
Saying it out loud sounds strange and somewhat needy, but I do need him.I’ve been away from him for years.
He sits up, bare and beautiful and completely fucking mine.His palm curls around my thigh, and he looks at me like he’s already undressing every excuse I haven’t said aloud.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I don’t want to let you go either.”
My voice cracks when I say, “I missed you.So fucking much it hurt.”
His hand slides higher, slow and reverent, and he leans in until his forehead rests against mine.
“When I was lucid,” he says, “I missed you ...which is why I tried not to be.”He closes his eyes like the confession costs him something.“I was self-destructing.Just ...burning everything down.You wouldn’t have liked me.It was bad.”
“I’m sorry you went through all that alone.”I kiss his jaw then his eyelids and his nose.“You’re different now.”
He opens his eyes.“I think I’m growing.Trying.”
“I know you are,” I say, brushing my fingers over the stubble on his jaw.“I see it.I feel it.”
We fall quiet again, the only sound between us the slow rhythm of the music and the soft slide of skin as he pulls me back into him.
This time there’s no rush.
He lies beside me, coaxing me onto my back with a look that stalls my breath.His body blankets mine.Warm.Solid.Real.His hand glides down my side, tracing the curve of my waist, my hip, like he’s mapping something sacred.
“I want you again,” he whispers, lips brushing my cheek, my throat, my collarbone.“Slow this time.”
“Okay, but then we have to go to my place.”
He puts on another condom, and when he slides back inside me, we both inhale sharply—like our bodies just remembered what it means to feel everything.
