Then I reach for my shoes.
“Yes.”
Peter’s knock is gentle. Not the sharp rap of urgency. Not the hesitant tap of intrusion. Just three steady knocks that feel like a promise being kept.
Dane checks his watch anyway. Habit. Control. A world he understands built on timing and movement and knowing exactly where the ground is before he steps on it.
“Five minutes early,” he murmurs. “That’s Peter.”
I smile as I slide my shoes on, the heels clicking softly against the wood. The sound makes my chest flutter. Final. Real. I catch my reflection again, this time fully assembled. Hair pinned back. Mouth colored. Eyes bright with something that feels dangerously close to joy.
Dane hands me my coat, helps me into it without rushing. His fingers linger at my collarbone, thumb brushing the pulse there like he’s counting proof of life.
“Whatever happens tonight,” he says quietly, forehead resting against mine, “you don’t owe anyone anything.”
“I owe myself,” I reply.
He nods. He understands that language better than anyone.
The elevator ride down is silent but charged. The city rises to meet us as the doors open. Rain slicks the pavement, streetlights bending in the wet like they’re bowing. Peter waits by the car, hands clasped behind his back, suit pressed, eyes soft with pride that isn’t his to claim but does anyway.
“Evening,” he says, and then he sees me properly. His smile widens, something damp shining briefly in his eyes before he clears his throat. “You look… ready.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I nod.
The car smells like leather and rain and familiarity. I slide into the back seat, Dane beside me, close but not touching yet. Peter pulls away from the curb smoothly, Wellington unfurling ahead of us like it’s been holding this route open all along.
No one talks at first.
The car smells like leather and rain and something faintly citrusy from the cleaner Peter always uses. Familiar. Grounding. I slide into the back seat, Dane beside me, close but not touching yet. Peter pulls away from the curb smoothly, Wellington unfolding ahead of us in streaks of wet light.
For a moment, no one speaks.
The city moves around us. Umbrellas tilt. Brake lights flare and dim. Somewhere a radio hums low, a song without words, just sound filling space.
“You know,” Peter says eventually, eyes steady on the road, voice careful in the way it gets when he’s stepping onto emotional ground he respects, “when you first told us about the article… I worried.”
My shoulders tense before I can stop them. My body always reacts faster than my mind. Dane’s knee brushes mine. Not accidental. Not dramatic. Just there. A reminder of weight. Of presence.
“I worried,” Peter continues, “because it wasn’t just writing. It was you putting yourself where people can’t look away. And the world isn’t gentle with women who refuse to disappear quietly.”
I swallow.
“But…” he adds, clearing his throat softly, “then you talked about why you were writing it. Not for revenge. Not for spectacle. For truth. For air. For naming something that keeps people trapped in rooms with no windows.”
He glances at me in the rearview mirror. Not long enough to make me self-conscious. Just enough to let me know he means this.
“And I thought… if words can hold something long enough for a person to survive it, then this night matters.”
My throat tightens. Pressure builds behind my eyes, sudden and sharp.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice thinner than I’d like, but honest.
Peter nods once. Small. Final. Like the conversation doesn’t need anything more from either of us.
Dane’s hand finally finds mine then, fingers threading together, warm and sure.
The city moves. Lights streak. Pedestrians huddle under umbrellas. Bars spill laughter onto the footpaths. Somewhere, a radio plays a song I don’t recognize but will always associate with this moment anyway.
