"No, it's not, Alena."
His voice is calm. Final.
He doesn't set me aside. Doesn't lift me off. Just keeps me there—straddling him, his hands still on my hips, my pulse hammering in my throat.
He picks up his beer like nothing happened. Takes a long drink.
My chest tightens. Fuck. I pushed too hard.
"Sorry," I mutter, reaching for my beer with shaking hands.
He doesn't answer. Just lights another cigarette, stares out at the city.
The silence stretches. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
I fucked up. I know I fucked up.
"Drogo—"
"Don't."
I bite my lip, turn away. My eyes sting.
Lucy's wrong. If he wanted me, that would've been his moment. Instead, he pulled away.
Brotherly. Safe. Exactly what I was afraid of.
After a moment, he sighs. His arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me against his chest.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
I nod against his shoulder, not trusting my voice.
We stay like that, drinking in silence. The easy comfort from before is gone, replaced by something careful. Something breakable.
I took another drag, staring at the sky.
I wonder if he feels it too—the pull, the fear, the what-if that keeps us both silent. Or if I'm the only one burning.
My fingers found his chest without thinking—tracing the ink that lived there. The letters of my name, curved over his heart. The date underneath: the day we both became millionaires.
My fingers outlined the letters slow, like I was allowed to claim them. His skin jumped under my touch, heartbeat kicking harder against my palm.
He took a long drag, watching me through the smoke, and smiled. That soft, devastating smile that made my chest ache.
"Do you remember when you got this?" I asked, fingertips trailing over the ink.
"You mean when you cried and called me an idiot for two hours straight?"
"You didn't ask me first."
"I didn't need to." He caught my hand, held it against his chest. "It's where you've always been anyway."
My throat tightened. From all of his tattoos—and they were many, covering his arms, chest, and thighs—that one was my favorite. But I would never admit that to him, or anyone else. I looked away, back to the stars that weren't there.
"Do you remember that night in Tower Hamlets? On the roof, lying on the concrete, looking at the stars?" I asked.
He gave me that warm, safe smile—the one that made my chest loosen—and wrapped those tattooed arms around me tighter.
