“The sun will be up soon,” she adds. “That’ll be a new day.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” I say, leaning back against the couch, my head tipping to the side so I can look at her.
“You’re right,” she says calmly. “And you’re drunk.”
She stands and eases my jacket off my shoulders. Her hands are steady and sure, a comfort I yearn for but don’t let myself indulge in.
She folds it over the back of a chair like this is normal. Like I haven’t walked in carrying something ugly and heavy with me.
The alcohol and being here with her like this pulls something I’ve stuffed down years ago loose in my chest. It’s the kind of ache I’ve learned over the years to never touch.
My mother flashes through my mind without warning, and I push it away just as fast.
“I’m always careful,” I say. “But tonight… I didn’t want to be.”
She sits on the edge of the coffee table, knees brushing mine. “You could have called,” she says gently. “You told me you would be tied up all night. I would’ve met you at the bunker.”
I let out a rough laugh. “How did I not think of that?”
The truth sits there, unspoken. I didn’t want to hide. I wanted to come here. I wanted to walk through her front door like I had every right to be here.
She reaches for my hand, and the warmth and familiarity and connection are everything.
Something in me shifts too fast, too far. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
“I love you.”
Her hand stills.
For a beat, the room is perfectly quiet. No hum of the city. No sound but my pulse thudding in my ears.
She opens her mouth.
I shake my head, slow and deliberate. “Don’t,” I say. “Just… don’t say anything right now.”
I don’t know if I’m protecting her or myself. I just know if she speaks, this changes into something I’m not ready to face sober.
She doesn’t pull away or answer. And I realize I’m fucked.
TWENTY-THREE
Coco
Prohibition-Era Speakeasies and Bootlegging:During Prohibition in the 1920s, New Orleans became a hub for illegal alcohol. Smugglers used the Mississippi River and underground tunnels to bring liquor into the city, distributing it to secret bars known as speakeasies. One legend tells of speakeasies in the French Quarter where patrons would sneak in through back alleys or disguised doorways, creating a world of hidden revelry behind the city’s charming facades.
The room is quiet.Even the birds outside have gone still. It’s the kind that presses in until it almost hums.
This silence always seems to follow a holiday night in this city. I heard people out late, voices drifting down the street long after midnight. That was before drunk Ridge showed up at my door, before the doorbell camera lit up at an hour no one respectable should be awake.
God, I hope my father didn’t have anyone keeping an eye on me.
Ridge’s body is warm beside mine. His arm lies heavy over my waist, anchoring me there, his breathing slow and even against my back.
We both said several times that it was better if he didn’t come here. Smarter. Safer. And still, seeing him standing on my doorstep made something in my chest loosen in a way I hadn’t realized was wound that tight.
Morning light slips in through the curtains, soft and pale, like the world hasn’t decided to start yet. Everything feels suspended. Held.
I don’t want it to end.
