Outside, the city moved on. But in that quiet pocket, her hand stayed in his.
?
The rest of the night blurred into something soft and unrushed.
They didn’t talk much after that; not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence felt full enough without words.
Gideon stayed close without crowding, his hand resting lightly against the back of her chair; a tether she didn’t want to question.
Arden finished her bourbon slowly, letting the warmth settle in her chest; letting it fight the old chill that never seemed to leave completely.
When she finally stood, he rose too; easy and unthinking, as if gravity itself pulled him toward her.
Neither of them spoke as they left the lounge; moving side by side through the sleeping hush of The Blackwell Room. The chandeliers were dim now, their reflections dulled and uneven across the marble. The air held the soft bite of whiskey, and maybe a hint of lemon polish lingering in the corners.
At the door, Arden paused—one hand on the latch, keys loose in the other.
Gideon didn’t push; he waited.
And that was the thing that undid her most of all.
She turned back, heart beating harder than she liked; and for a second, she thought about reaching for him.
About closing the last inch between them.
Instead, she offered a small smile; quiet, tired, real.
“Goodnight, Blackwell.”
His lips curved slightly. “Goodnight, Rivers.”
Their names held a different weight now; she heard it in the way he said hers.
Something he wasn't ready to put down.
Neither was she.
The door clicked shut behind her with a hush of finality; but the night felt unfinished.
Something had been set into motion, quiet and certain, too heavy to stop now.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the fear and the old scars that still ached when she breathed too deep, something else stirred.
Something that felt, terrifyingly, like hope.
CHAPTER 17
Brunch Among Friends
Sunlight crept through the apartment windows, soft and slanted. It spilled across the scuffed wood floors, lighting up the living room in a sleepy kind of gold.
Arden stood at the counter with a mug that was still too hot to drink.
Across the room, Penny breezed by, as if music lived in her bones. Her curls bounced with every step, and her pajama pants were purple chaos—loud enough to wake the dead, printed with cartoon cats mid-catastrophe. Tails tangled. Paws flailing. Somehow, it fit her.
Coffee filled the air, rich and sweetened by the faintest thread of vanilla from a flickering candle Penny had stashed on a shelf like it belonged there all along.
Arden breathed it in. No rush. Only quiet. The kind of serenity that only lasts until the world remembers you exist.
