Page 94 of Faking the Heat

The doorbell chimes, a bright, melodic sound that cuts through my reverie. I turn to see Kayla standing there, clutching a tray of artisan teas and wearing a grin that suggests she's already decided which wall she's going to claim for her 'unofficial' breakroom. Behind her, the rest of my world is spilling in: my parents looking uncharacteristically casual, Jake Lawson in a flannel shirt that's seen better days, and Becca Hayes, who looks like she's just finished a twelve-hour shift but still manages to radiate more calm than I've felt in a decade.

“Look at this place,” Kayla says, setting the tea down on a stack of architectural digests. “It's almost too professional for you, Peterson. Where are the scattered charcoal smears? Where's the existential dread? I feel like I should be wearing a suit just to stand on this rug. I almost feel like I should be asking for your business card before I'm allowed to speak. “

“The dread is scheduled for Tuesday morning,” I say, pulling her into a quick, fierce hug. “Today, we're sticking to caffeine and calculated success. Thank you for coming, Kayla. Seriously. I don't think I'd be standing in this room if you hadn't forced me to drink all that peppermint tea when I was vibrating with anxiety. “

She pulls back, her sharp eyes scanning the room until they land on Sterling, who is currently cornered by my father near the window. They aren't talking about risk assessments or insurance premiums. They're looking at a structural beam, Sterling pointing out something about the masonry with the easy, unhurried authority he carries into every room. My father is nodding, his hand resting briefly on Sterling's shoulder, and my throat closes.

Robert Peterson doesn't do 'unforced kinship.' He does audits. He does performance reviews. Seeing him look at Sterling with that expression of quiet respect is a tectonic shift in my reality. It's the sound of a wall I've lived behind for thirty years finally crumbling into dust, and for the first time, the dust doesn't make me cough. It just feels like a clean start.

“He really did it, didn't he? “ Kayla whispers, leaning closer. “Saint Sterling found you the perfect light. I should probably hate him for being so consistently decent, but it's hard to stay mad at a man who looks that good in a henley. He's like a human antidepressant with better-than-average deltoids. “

“He didn't find it,” I correct her, watching Sterling laugh at something Jake just said. “We found it. There's a difference. It wasn't a rescue this time, Kayla. It was a partnership. “

The studio fills up quickly, the hum of conversation bouncing off the high ceilings. It's a housewarming party, a professional launch, and a family reunion all rolled into one. Jake is already hovering near the catering table, eyeing the miniature quiches like they're a tactical objective. He catches my eye and winks, the same happy-go-lucky glint in his gaze that saw me through those first few days of homelessness and mismatched pajamas.

“Nice place, Sparkles,” Jake calls out, dodging a stray designer stool. “Almost makes me want to quit the department and start drawing circles for a living. Almost. Although Sterling tells me you've got a strict 'no firefighters on the furniture' rule now that you're a mogul. Something about soot on the velvet? I told him I'd shower twice, but he said you're a tyrant now. “

“Only the ones who can't sit still for more than five minutes,” I fire back. “Which means you're relegated to the sidewalk, Lawson. I have high-end clients coming in here. I can't have you doing parkour off my drafting tables. “

“Harsh,” he grins, sliding over to Sterling. “You hear that, Hayes? She's already gone corporate. Next thing you know, she'll be making us sign NDAs just to see the cat. I'm telling you, the fame is going to her head. “

Sterling laughs, the sound rich and grounding. He moves toward me, navigating the small crowd with the kind of spatial awareness that's saved his life a dozen times in burning buildings. When he reaches me, he doesn't just stand nearby; he slides an arm around my waist, pulling me into his side. It's an effortless movement, devoid of the performative stiffness that used to define us in front of an audience. It's just us, integrated and honest. His heat is a constant, a baseline rhythm that I've come to depend on more than the coffee.

“Everything okay? “ he asks, his voice low enough that it's just for me. “Your mom is currently trying to color-coordinate your business cards, and your dad is asking me if the HVAC system is up to code for 'sensitive paper storage.' I think he's five minutes away from checking the insulation behind the drywall. “

“It's perfect,” I say, leaning my head against his shoulder for a second. “I think they're actually proud, Sterling. Not the 'she's finally settled' kind of proud. The real kind. The kind where they see me as an actual person with a career instead of a project they failed to finish. “

He squeezes my hip, his thumb tracing a slow, familiar circle against the fabric of my dress. “They should be. You built this, Mandy. From the ground up. All I did was hold the ladder while you climbed. And maybe made some really good coffee. “

“You did more than hold the ladder,” I whisper, squeezing his hand. “You were the one who told me the ladder was there in the first place. “

Kayla taps the side of a glass with a silver stirrer, the ringing sound quieting the room. She stands in the center of the studio, a cup of Earl Grey held high, her expression softening into something uncharacteristically sincere. She looks at me, then at Sterling, and I can see the memory of every frantic phone call and tear-stained sketchbook page flickering in her eyes.

“I'm not one for long speeches,” Kayla begins, her voice steady and projecting through the room. “But I've known Mandy Peterson since we were nineteen, back when we thought professional success was just a matter of staying caffeinated and avoiding our parents' phone calls. I watched her lose everything a few months ago, her home, her drawings, even her favorite slipper. And I watched her stand on a curb and think she had to fix it all by herself. She was so convinced that being a disaster meant being unlovable. “

She pauses, her gaze shifting to Sterling. “And then there was this guy. The firefighter who offered a room and a fake story, and who probably knew before any of us that Mandy didn't need saving, she just needed someone to stand in the smoke with her while she saved herself. He gave her the space to realize she was the hero of her own story. So, here's to Mandy's new studio, and to arrangements that were way too good to be fake. “

The room erupts in a chorus of 'to Mandy' and the clinking of glasses. My mother is dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, and even my father looks a little glassy-eyed as he raises his glass of sparkling water. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks, that familiar, prickling flush that always arrives when I'm the center of attention. Beside me, Sterling pulls me even closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as the noise swells around us.

“You know,” he whispers, his breath warm against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning, “if you're looking for a new intern, I hear there's a guy who's very good at keeping the coffee hot. And he's already got a pair of fuzzy llama socks if the floor gets cold. He's also very handy with a hammer if you need more things hung on the walls. “

I laugh, turning in his arms to look up at him. The private joke hits me right in the center of my chest, a reminder of the night I thought my life was over and he was just the man who gave me a place to sleep. “I think that guy might be overqualified. I heard he's a bit of a hero. Tends to get distracted by sirens. Also, I think he has a habit of stealing the lead designer's heart when she's not looking. “

“Not anymore,” he says, his eyes dark and honest, filled with a light that matches the north-facing glow of the windows. “The only thing I'm distracted by is the woman who finally decided she was brave enough to stay. The one who realized that home isn't a building you can lose; it's the person you come back to. “

I look around the room at the people who supported me, the parents who finally stopped seeing me as a risk to be managed, the best friend who never let me settle for less than I deserved, and the man who taught me that love isn't a performance you have to get right. My support system wasn't just a guest room or a fake boyfriend; it was the life I'd been building one sketch at a time, even when I thought I was failing. It was the resilience born from ash.

I watch my mother approach a display of my recent typography work. She leans in, squinting at the kerning of a boutique hotel logo. “This is... it's very elegant, Mandy. It has a strength to it. “ She looks at me, and for the first time, I don't feel like I'm waiting for the 'but' at the end of the sentence. “You really are quite talented. I'm sorry if I ever made it seem like I didn't see that. “

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, and for the first time in my life, the words don't feel like something I am hiding behind. They feel like a bridge.

The party begins to wind down as the sun dips lower, casting long, golden fingers across the studio floor. The shadows lengthen, turning the white walls into a warm, amber hue. My parents leave with a series of surprisingly gentle hugs, my mother promising not to 'organize' anything without written permission, and my father giving Sterling a firm, lingering handshake that says more than any insurance policy ever could. It's a silent passing of the baton, a recognition that I am in good hands, not because Sterling is my protector, but because it goes both ways.

Jake and Becca head out next, Jake promising to bring a pizza by the station on Tuesday to celebrate my 'mogul status.' Becca catches my eye before she leaves, giving me a knowing nod that speaks of shared secrets and the quiet strength of women who know how to manage the men in their lives.

Finally, it's just the two of us. The studio is quiet again, the smell of celebration lingering in the air like the echo of a song. The bustle of the street outside is a muffled hum, the city settling into its evening rhythm. I walk over to the large front window, looking out at the Chicago skyline as the streetlights begin to flicker on, one by one, like a string of pearls. The city looks different from here, less like a collection of hazards and more like a map of possibilities.

I think about the gas leak and the sidewalk and the feeling of the cold pavement under my bare foot. I think about the woman who stood there shivering, clutching a cat carrier and a single slipper, convinced that her world had ended. I think about the woman who was so afraid of being a disappointment that she almost missed out on being happy. She feels like a stranger now, a character from a book I finished reading a long time ago. She was a woman of arrangements and safety nets. I am a woman of my own design, and of risks.