He’d admitted that.
Tonight, I could have died. Not once, but twice. First from the peanut. Then from the bullets. Both times, Damian stepped in without hesitation. Put himself in danger. Followed me straight into chaos.
That wasn’t control. It was the opposite.
It was risk. A risk he took forme.
Could I do the same? Take a risk forhim?
Maybe being alone wasn’t working for me anymore either. Maybe it was time to stop mistaking solitude for safety.
So I came.
Not becausehewanted me to.
BecauseIdid.
The door opens on well-oiled hinges, which surprises me. I thought there was nothing up here. That it was utilitarian. Some air-conditioning ducts and heating vents. Stuff like that. Which is why when I step out onto the roof, I stop short, unable to believe my eyes.
The city block stretches out below, lights glittering along the street like spilled stars, but I barely register it. Instead, I’m mesmerized by the strings of warm white bulbs that crisscross the space overhead, anchored to sturdy metal, swaying gently in the night.
A narrow path of candles stretches out in front of me, each flame protected by tall glass cylinders, their light steady despite the wind. They forma clear walkway across the rooftop, leading away from the door like an invitation.
Beyond them…a tent.
Not a flimsy canopy, but a full-size event tent, like the kind used for winter weddings or formal banquets. Heavy white vinyl. Opaque windows. A peaked roof dusted with a faint sheen of frost that makes it glow under the lights.
The candlelight guides me forward.
I walk, my heels quiet against the rooftop flooring he’s laid down, interlocking panels, stable and solid beneath my feet. When I reach the tent, I push aside the zippered flap.
Warmth wraps around me instantly.
Heat lamps hum softly from the corners, angled inward. A space heater sits discreetly near the back wall. The air smells faintly of citrus and clean linen instead of cold metal and snow. More candles flicker inside as well, scattered along low tables and arranged on bookshelves, their light softened by sheer fabric draped along the tent walls.
The space glows, golden, bright, and impossibly inviting.
A small table sits near the edge, draped in dark fabric. On it: my favorite flowers. Not roses, like most people guess, but peonies, full and layered, in the exact shade of blush pink I love. A bottle of wine I once mentioned offhand, months ago, when I thought no one was listening. Chocolate. Not generic. The expensive kind with sea salt and caramel, wrapped in big red ribbon.
My chest tightens.
Damian stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets. Not touching anything. Still. Like he’s afraid one wrong move will send me running.
Mr. Wiggles is asleep on the seat next to him, with a pink ribbon tied around his neck. That shocks me more than anything. My cathatesaccessories. Has drawn blood over collars.
“This is…” I trail off, turning slowly as I take in the space.
“My retreat,” he says. “I come up here a lot.”
That much is obvious now that I look closer. The way everything is arranged with quiet efficiency. The worn spot on the flooring near the edge, where someone must stand often. A chair positioned just right to catch the light and the view beyond the tent wall.
“In the summer,” he adds, “I don’t need any of this.”
He gestures vaguely, not to the candles or the table, but to the structure itself.
“I set up some patio furniture. Sit out here. Let the sun warm my skin.” A faint, rueful smile touches his mouth. “Even I need to get out of my apartment sometimes.”
The image of Damian stretched out on the rooftop in the middle of Manhattan feels strange. Intimate. Like seeing him somewhere he never meant to be observed.
