She tilts her head, considering. Then she smiles—barely. “You’re terrible at pancakes.”
“I didn’t burn them last time.”
“You nearly set off the fire alarm.”
“Still edible.”
“Charcoal is not a spice.”
We stare at each other a beat too long. Then she steps forward, cups my face in both hands, her palms warm against the stubble on my jaw.
“You don’t have to build a fortress,” she murmurs. “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
I look at her then, really look. Hair tousled, eyes still soft with sleep, lips chapped from the night air. And all I can think is: this—this is what the fortress is for. Not to keep the world out. To keep her in.
I rest my forehead against hers.
“I know,” I whisper.
But I still finish the upgrades.
Because love isn’t just words. It’s action. It’s being the wall that won’t fall, the door that won’t break, the hand that fixes things in silence.
And when the world comes knocking again, I want her to know—this place, this life, this quiet corner we’ve carved out—it’ll hold.
Later, the night air’s cooler than usual, a soft wind pulling in from the east that smells like old freight dust and ozone. It’s quiet in the way only late hours can be—when the city exhales and the noise crawls back into its hole. I find her there, right where I figured she’d be, cross-legged on the balcony ledge, staring off at the dark curve of the horizon like it owes her something.
She doesn’t look up when I step out. Doesn’t flinch. Just slides her hand out behind her, palm up, wordless. I take it.
Her fingers are cold. I wrap mine around them, gentle, and sit beside her, both of us leaning into the railing, shoulders touching.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, my voice low.
She shrugs. “About nothing. About everything. You ever do that?”
“Only every damn day.”
She huffs a soft breath, not quite a laugh. Then, after a pause: “We’re not running anymore.”
I nod. “No.”
She turns her head, eyes catching mine in the dark. “So what do you want now?”
I glance out at the skyline, the shimmer of blinking lights and stillness. Then I look back at her. “This,” I say. “You. More of it.”
Her breath catches just a little, not that she lets it show for long. “That simple?”
“Does it need to be complicated?”
“No,” she whispers. “Just... wasn’t sure if you’d still want this when things got quiet.”
I lean in, press my forehead to hers. “Quiet doesn’t scare me. Losing you does.”
She closes her eyes, and for a while we just sit there, the two of us wrapped in silence, in the echo of everything we fought to keep.
I don’t need anything else. Just this moment. Just her.
CHAPTER 28
