Page 41 of Bad Men's Good Girl

"We could figure it out," I say, the honesty of it vibrating in the air. "Neither of us has to go back to the way things were."

The coastline dissolves into a jagged silhouette against a velvet sky, and one by one, the lights of the harbor prick the darkness like fallen stars. The village below glows with a warm, amber hum, but up here on the seawall, the world feels reduced to the narrow space between us.

Atticus doesn't look at the horizon. He doesn't glance at his watch or check the light for one last frame. His eyes stay anchored to mine, heavy and unblinking. The restless energy that usually defines him—that "keep moving, keep talking" vibration—has finally gone silent. He isn't calculating the distance to the next port or framing a story in his head. He is simply, terrifyingly present.

"You're looking at me like you've never seen me before," I say. My voice feels thin in the salt air, but I don't look away.

"I haven't," he says. He reaches out, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a slow, deliberate pressure that sends a jolt through my chest. "I’ve been looking at the version of you I thought I could walk away from when the program ended. The girl on vacation. I didn't plan for the girl who could see right through the walls."

The air around us thickens, charged with a sudden, sharp clarity. It’s no longer about the romantic backdrop of a Mediterranean sunset or the thrill of a summer fling. It’s the weight of two people standing on the precipice of a great height, realizing they’ve already stopped falling.

He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. I detect the heat of him, the steady, rapid thrum of his pulse beneath the skin of his wrist. He isn't pulling back to maintain a comfortable distance. He isn't shielding himself with a camera or a clever observation. He’s leaning into the uncertainty, choosing the friction of a real connection over the safety of his solitude.

"Baleigh," he whispers, her name sounding like a confession.

I reach up, my hands sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. There is no more room for metaphors or exits. The attraction that’s been simmering under every shared espresso and every winding street excursion boils over, stripped of all its pretenses. I see him now—the man beneath the traveler—and he sees the woman who finallydecided to stop playing it safe. We aren't running anymore. We’re right here.

26

ATTICUS

The last train to Rome whistles in the distance, a lonely, metallic mechanical wail echoing through the ravine. I don’t even check my watch. Usually, that sound is a pulse—a reminder that there are always tracks leading somewhere else, a way out of any entanglement. Tonight, it’s just noise.

The harbor water is liquid obsidian, broken only by the shimmering reflections of yellow café lights and the rhythmicthlap-thlapof old wooden hulls kissing the pier. Baleigh stands beside me, her shoulder pressing against mine, and the sensation is more grounding than any anchor. I’ve spent a decade chasing horizons, convinced that movement was the only way to stay alive. But standing here, watching the way the salt air curls the fine strands of hair around her face, I realize I’ve been running toward a void.

"We missed it," she says, voice drifting like woodsmoke. She doesn't sound worried. She sounds like she’s already home.

"Let it go," I say. "There are worse places to be stranded."

We descend from the seawall, our boots clicking on the ancient cobblestones of the village. The day-trippers havevanished, leaving the alleys to the ghosts and the locals. We find a narrow path where the smell of jasmine and grilled sardines clings to the damp stone walls.

There’s no camera strap chafing my neck; I left the gear in the bag at the trattoria. I’m not looking for the shot. I’m just looking at her.

"I used to have this ritual," I say, the words tumbling forth without censorship. "Every time I felt someone getting too close—a girl, a friend, an editor—I’d book a flight to a country where I didn't speak the language. I thought if I couldn't communicate, I couldn't be responsible for their feelings."

Baleigh stops, her eyes catching the glow of a nearby lantern. "And now?"

"Now I think I was just tired of being misunderstood, so I made it impossible to be understood at all." I take a breath, letting the honesty settle in my chest like a weight. "But with you, the silence isn't empty. It’s actually quiet. Do you know how long it’s been since my head was quiet?"

She reaches out, her hand sliding into mine, and we keep walking, two shadows merging against the sun-bleached plaster of the village.

The promenade ends in a stone terrace that juts over the cliffside, a jagged tooth of rock biting into the silver-flecked Mediterranean. Down below, the spray of the tide hits the grotto walls with a hollow, rhythmic boom. I let go of her hand only to lean my elbows on the cold railing, staring out at the horizon where the black water meets the starless sky.

"I’ve spent the better part of this summer performing an elaborate dance," I say, the confession tasting like copper. "I told myself I was just being a guide. That I was taking photos of a subject. Every time I felt that pull toward you, I’d invent a reason to stay in the darkroom or go on a solo scout."

I turn my head toward her, the moonlight carving the curves of her face into sharp relief. My throat tightens.

"I tried to treat you like a sunset—something beautiful to observe, but something that inevitably disappears. But the curiosity turned into something I couldn't crop out. I admire your grit, Baleigh. I admire the way you look at this country with your heart wide open, even when it’s messy. I’ve reached a point where I can't explain you away anymore. I don't want to."

Speaking the words feels like stepping off the cliff behind us. I’m waiting for the freefall, the panic of being seen, but it doesn’t come.

Baleigh shifts, closing the small gap between us. She doesn’t look away. "You think you’re the only one who’s been scared? I came here to escape a life that felt like a cage, Atticus. I didn't expect to find someone who built his own cage out of open roads and flight tickets."

She places a hand on my chest, right over the erratic thrum of my heart.

"Vulnerability isn't a surrender," she whispers, her thumb grazing the fabric of my shirt. "You’ve spent so much time convinced that staying means losing your edge, or losing yourself. But look at where we are. You’re still you. You’re just not alone."

The tension that’s been coiled in my shoulders for a decade begins to fray. I cover her hand with mine, pressing it deeper against my ribs. The fear is still there—a dull hum in the background—but the possibility of what happens if I don't run for the next train is louder.