He reaches across the table. Takes my hand. Folds his fingers through mine and squeezes once—steady, certain, the grip of a man who knows how to hold on.
The sun is going down—the deck has shifted from gold to amber, and the notes between us are just paper now, and the plan is solid, and the juice is warm, and tomorrow we blow up a wedding, and tomorrow is the last day of the deal, and his thumb is tracing circles on my knuckle like he can't stop touching me even when we're strategizing.
"You didn't have to turn down that money," he says.
"Are we back on that?"
"I'm just saying."
"I don't charge people to be decent, West. It's a free service. Like the cooking."
He tilts his head and watches me. Reminds me of a golden retriever in commercials. It makes me feel seen in a way that’s wonderful but also too much for a Friday evening on a borrowed balcony.
"You're something else," he says.
I squeeze his hand. "So are you."
He pulls me up from my chair. I go easily—around the table, into his arms, chin tipped up to meet his gaze. He tucks a strand of hair behind my earwith a gentleness that contradicts everything about his size.
"Tomorrow's going to be a mess," I say.
"Probably."
"But a controlled mess."
"The best kind."
"And after that—"
"After that," he says, "is after that."
Not a promise. Not a deflection. Something in between. Something that saysI'm here right now and that's all I can guarantee.
I press my forehead to his chest. Feel his heartbeat against my temple. Steady. Reliable. The kind of rhythm you could set a clock to, or a life.
"We should eat," I say. "Real food. Before tomorrow."
"I could cook."
"You cook?"
"I survived twelve years in professional hockey. I can make pasta, eggs, and exactly one impressive dish I learned from a teammate's Italian grandmother."
"Which is?"
"Cacio e pepe. But only if you don't watch me make it, because my technique is questionable and the grandmother would be disappointed."
I laugh and his arms tighten around me.
"Deal" I say. "I won't look."
"Promise?"
"I'll face the wall like I'm in time out."
He presses a kiss to my forehead. Lingering. Warm.
"Tomorrow we save a bride," he says against my hair.
