His hands emerge from his pockets at last, sliding up to cradle my face. His palms are warm, thumbs brushing the hinge of my jaw. The touch makes my eyes flutter shut as my pulse skips. Then his mouth finds mine.
The kiss begins soft, searching, the kind that asks rather than takes. But the moment my lips part, something deeper unfurls between us—his tongue sweeping into my mouth, the scrape of his teeth catching on my lower lip. The pressure builds, and I feel it everywhere. The curl of heat in my stomach, the way my fingers tighten in his shirt, the longing that always finds me when he kisses me like this.
I melt into it, letting his rhythm guide mine, until thought gives way to instinct—until all that’s left is the warmth of his breath against my mouth, the contented sigh that escapes me when he presses closer.
In his arms, the noise in my head finally fades. No Castor & Wyatt. No London. No impossible decisions. Just the simple truth of us, irrevocably bound, even when the world feels like it’s shifting beneath my feet.
When he finally pulls back—with great reluctance—he stays close enough that I can feel his words against my lips. “Go get your things, baby. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
I hear what he doesn’t say:I’m here. I’m not leaving. I’ll wait until you’re ready to tell me.
My heart hurts. I nod, stepping back first, needing the space to steady myself. “I won’t be long,” I tell him.
He watches me for a moment longer before turning toward the door.
I barely slept.
Last night unspools in fragments—flashes of candlelight, the slow arc of Nathaniel’s smile across the table at Gramercy Tavern, the steady weight of his fingers covering mine. The restaurant was elegant in that understated way he prefers: warm wood, linen, the shimmer of glassware.
The taste of the wine lingered on my tongue, dry and floral. His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist. Around us, conversation moved in low waves, steady and civilized. It should have been enough to ground me in this life I chose. Instead, I kept thinking of what it would mean to step away from it, to say yes to something that takes me across an ocean.
On the ride home, Nathaniel’s hand rested on my thigh. I told myself it was what certainty feels like. But he sensed my distance—he always does—and when we reached the apartment, he kissed me in the hallway, then against the bedroom door. That’s always how we meet when speaking feels impossible.
As he drew me to bed, there was no urgency in the way he pulled my pants down my legs and my blouse over my head. His hands slid over me, touching my throat, my ribs, my stomach, my thighs. With each caress, desire woke, hot and wild, filling my core and tightening it like a coil of pure heat.
When I wrapped my legs around his hips and held him tightly, the look of relief that passed over his features was almost heart-wrenching. He moved inside me with deep, purposefulthrusts, and I dropped my head back on the pillow, sighing with pleasure.
His fingers slipped between our bodies to feel where we were connected, then upward to circle my clit. With each decisive flick, pleasure rose higher and higher until I tipped over the edge, gasping out his name as my body shuddered in release.
Nathaniel followed soon after, spilling into me with a few jerky thrusts before burying his face in the crook of my neck. He stayed there for several moments, seemingly unwilling to separate us, while I ran my hands up and down his back, whispering words of love in his ear over and over.
Eventually, he rolled to the side, gathered me in his arms, and was almost instantly asleep.
I lay there in the dim light of his room, listening to him breathe while sleep eluded me.
At some point, I crawled out of his embrace and slid into the bathroom to wash up and pull on a shirt, grabbing my phone as I slipped back into bed, careful not to wake him.
The email from Castor & Wyatt was already in my inbox. The words were neat and thrilling and impossible. I imagined London: a new skyline, a new life. Then I looked at him, the stillness of his shoulders rising and falling beside me. The two visions didn’t belong in the same frame.
The next afternoon,I decide to slip out of the office for lunch on my own.
Bryant Park is just a short walk away. The air carries a subtle sweetness, somewhere between lilacs and exhaust. Sunlight slips through the plane trees, striping the grass in shifting gold.I buy a sandwich from a cart and a paper cup of coffee, then find a small table by the fountain.
Around me, the city exhales into its midday rhythm. A man reads the paper on a bench. A woman in heels eats a salad while typing on her phone. Two kids chase each other, laughter echoing through the open space. The sound of life carries from every direction—voices, footsteps, the distant metallic rattle of the carousel turning.
I realize this is the first time I’ve been truly alone here. And surprisingly, it doesn’t feel daunting. It feels…expansive.
All the things I thought I needed to move abroad to find—anonymity, independence, possibility—are already at my fingertips.
For so long, I thought the only way to feel free was to leave. I grew up believing that distance was the cure for duty—that if I could get far enough away, I could stop being the responsible one, the dependable one, the daughter who never got to want anything for herself. Leaving the country had seemed like the only way to start over, to unlearn the version of myself that existed only to hold everyone else together.
But sitting here, surrounded by strangers who expect nothing from me, I feel something shift. Maybe freedom isn’t running from what shaped me. Maybe it’s realizing that those expectations don’t have power over me anymore. I don’t have to disappear to be my own person. I can stay—and still choose me.
A breeze passes through, lifting the corner of my napkin. I press it down and glance toward the skyline. The glass buildings rise above the park, gleaming and severe, Caldwell Tower among them. My reflection is somewhere within all that mirrored light, and for the first time, it doesn’t make me feel small.
I take the last sip of my coffee. The taste is bitter and grounding. Around me, people stand, scatter, return to the liveswaiting for them. I linger another moment, letting the sunlight warm my face.
By the time I’m back at Caldwell Tower, the world feels a little sharper, more coherent. I swipe my badge, nod to the receptionist, and move through the glass doors toward the conference room.
