Chapter 22
We get out of the subway and into Coney Island station, and my heart is lodged in my throat.
Rogue follows close behind, that small, impossible smile still playing at his mouth. It’s throwing me off completely, because Rogue doesn’t smile, not like this. Not steady. Not soft. Yet today, he’s done nothing but.
He stays close—careful, respectful, protective in a way that shouldn’t make my pulse skip, but it does.
Protective. God, listen to me. My hormones are narrating my life. He doesn’t even know where we are, and I’m over here imagining he’s shielding me from invisible danger.
He’s observant, though. Every time we move, his head turns slightly, taking in our surroundings, reading the world like it’s a pitch and he’s defending the goal. I try to pretend his attention doesn’t affect me, but it does. It always does.
It still amazes me no one’s recognized him, but then again, this is New York. Everyone’s in their own little orbit, and anonymity is the easiest thing to find underground. Maybe that’s why I wanted to bring him here, to show him whatnormalfeels like.
When we step out onto Surf Avenue, Coney Island greets us in full Technicolor. Bright signs, loud laughter, the metallic rush of the rides spinning somewhere behind the skyline. The air smells of salt and oil and sugar. It’s perfect.
The light turns green, and I lead the way, Rogue following without a word.
“Let’s go to Nathan’s,” I say.
He just nods, that quiet agreement that somehow carries more weight than any sentence.
The line moves quickly, the noise of sizzling grills and clattering trays wrapping around us. For a moment, it’s like being nineteen again, when I used to escape the city every chance I got, grabbed a hot dog, walked the boardwalk barefoot. Only this time, there’s a six-foot-four footballer shadowing my every step.
When it’s our turn, I look at him for his order.
“I’ll have what you’re having,” he says.
It takes me a beat to process. “I’m just realizing you’re probably on some strict athlete diet. We can go somewhere else if you’d like.”
His mouth curves. “A hot dog won’t hurt, kitten.”
I order two and glance at the drinks menu. “Do you drink soda? Want to share one?”
He nods.
“One medium cola and one bottled water,” I tell the cashier.
Before I can reach for my wallet, he’s already got his card out.
“I’ve got it,” I start, but he just smirks.
“I’ve got it, kitten,” he says, tapping his card.
I step aside, pretending the move is to give him privacy with the card reader, but really, it’s to catch my breath.
When our food’s ready, we move to the condiment station.
“What do you want on yours?” I ask.
He tilts his head, thoughtful. “To tell you the truth, kitten, I think I was a child the last time I had a hot dog.”
I stare. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
“Well,” I say, grinning, “I’m glad your first hot dog in a century is going to be Nathan’s.”
He laughs, loud, genuine, full, and the sound hits me straight in the chest.
