20. Huck
HUCK
I don’t wipe all the blood off before I go to her.
Not because I’m trying to scare her. Or because I think it’ll make me look tough. It’s not about that. It’s about truth. Because when I knock on her office door—knuckles still stained, tension knotting my shoulders—I want her to see what her ex is making us do.
Bailey opens the door herself. She’s barefoot, hair down, wearing an oversized sweater that falls off one shoulder, and she looks nothing like the woman the world sees in magazines.
She looks like Bailey . The real one. The one who trusted me before she trusted herself.
Her eyes drop to my hands. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Did he talk?”
I nod once. “David hired him. Took the pictures. All of them.”
She leans against the doorframe like her legs don’t want to hold her anymore. Like she’s tired all the way down to the marrow. Her voice is a ghost. “I’m so tired of this.”
I reach out, palm up.
She looks at it for a long second before placing her hand in mine.
“I know,” I say. “That’s why we’re handling it.”
Her voice breaks. “Why is he still doing this? I left. I left . Isn’t that what he wanted?”
“No,” I murmur. “What he wanted was to keep hurting you.”
She closes her eyes. When she opens them, they’re full of heat. Grief. And something like shame. “I hate that he still gets under my skin.”
“He doesn’t.”
“He does.”
“Only because you’re still healing,” I say. “That’s not weakness. That’s proof you got away.”
She blinks fast. Then lets out a breath. “Okay, you win. That was…almost poetic.” She smiles, faint and tired. “Can you stay for a little?”
“Wasn’t planning on leaving.”
We stand like that for a beat—her in the doorway, me with blood on my hands, and everything between us softening.
There’s a question I’ve been carrying since we got back. The one that used to mean something when we were kids, up on rooftops and cracked asphalt with stars overhead and cheap 7-Eleven snacks in our laps. “So. Do you still look at the sky?”
She tilts her head. “What?”
“The stars. You ever go up and look at ’em anymore?”
She hesitates. “I have a rooftop terrace.”
I raise a brow. “Seriously?”
“You wanna see?”
“Lead the way.”
And just like that, she tugs me into her world again—up the stairs, past the quiet rooms and heavy shadows, and onto a rooftop I swear was built for something holy. The rooftop terrace looks like it was pulled from a design magazine and then lived in .
It’s all stone and soft light, with a glass half-wall that opens the whole space to the hills and the sky.
There’s a firepit, a few low planters with night-blooming jasmine, and a cluster of chairs near the railing.
In the back corner, away from everything, are a few oversized lounge chairs and a couch—wide enough for four, with a thick cushion and a dark gray throw tossed over the back.
Bailey steps out into the wind, arms folded across her chest, hair lifting just slightly. “I don’t come up here enough.”
“You should,” I say.
The sky is clear tonight—cold and endless, with a faint scattering of stars pushing through LA haze. You can’t see the full Milky Way, but you can see Orion. Always Orion.
She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. “It’s stupid, but sometimes I forget how pretty this place is.”
“Not stupid,” I say. “You’ve been fighting to feel safe in it.”
She glances over her shoulder. “Do you?”
“What?”
“Feel safe?”
I walk over to the railing, look out at the lights. “No,” I admit. “Not really. But I feel better up here.”
“Because of the view?”
I look at her. “Because of you.”
She blushes. Looks away. “God, you’re worse than Wesley.”
“He’s a talker. I’m not.”
She laughs—small, surprised. “You’ve always been good at that.”
“What?”
“Getting to the point.”
I walk toward her slowly, closing the distance.
“You used to sneak up behind me on the roof back home,” she says. “Back when it was just tar and cracked brick and that busted lawn chair.”
“You always left the fire escape open for me.”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
I step beside her, shoulders almost touching. “You’d bring a blanket. I’d bring Red Vines and that terrible vanilla soda you liked.”
She smirks. “You still remember that?”
“I remember everything.”
She goes quiet. Still. A heavy sigh breaks the silence. “I miss that version of us.”
“Me too.”
She tilts her face toward the sky. “But I like this version more.” Her eyes go soft now. Not afraid. Not tense. “I’m still figuring it out. Being with people who give a shit. Who stay. Who don’t flinch when I fall apart.”
“You’re not falling apart.”
“Not tonight.”
I hold her gaze. “Not ever. Not if I can help it.”
The wind picks up again. She shivers, so I take her hand and lead her to the sofa without another word. She curls into my side the second we sit. No hesitation. Just a soft shift of weight as she pulls the throw blanket across our legs and rests her cheek against my shoulder.
The city stretches out below us like a glittering sprawl of possibility. But up here? It’s quiet. No cameras. No lines to rehearse. Just sky and breath and the thread of warmth between our thighs.
She exhales against my neck, breath warm. “You always made me feel safe.”
“I’m glad.”
She shifts, tilts her head, looks up at me through lashes that catch moonlight like they’re coated in silver. “You still do.” Then she kisses me.
She feels like home.
Her lips are soft. Familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. Like I’ve been waiting years to feel this again but didn’t know how badly I missed it until she pressed her mouth to mine. Something deep inside settles in my bones.
I kiss her back slowly, savoring it. One hand in her hair, the other resting on her thigh over the blanket.
She moves closer, swinging one leg across my lap until she’s straddling me—body to body, warmth to warmth.
I run my hands down her back, under the sweater, tracing the warm skin at her waist. Her hips roll once, instinct.
And that’s it. That’s all it takes for both of us to break a little.
She kisses me deeper now. Hungrier. And I let her. Let her sink into me. She leans back just enough to pull her sweater over her head, hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She’s not wearing a bra.
My breath catches. She watches my reaction, smiling shyly— Bailey , always brave and a little bashful, even when she’s in control. I trace her ribs, then her breasts, fingertips reverent. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“You’ve seen me cry in gym clothes.”
“And still,” I murmur, “most beautiful thing I’ve ever touched.”
She laughs—low, breathy, and damn near lethal—then tugs my shirt over my head. Her fingers skim down my chest. I shiver. She leans in again, and her lips find my neck. My shoulder. My collarbone. I grip her hips, guiding her down against me, friction perfect even with clothes still between us.
“I want you,” she whispers. “Slow.”
“You’ve got me. All night.”
She reaches down and undoes the button on my jeans. My breath catches in my throat as her fingers trail beneath the denim, her eyes locked on mine the whole time. “Okay?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She shifts, lifts up just enough to help me slide my jeans and boxers down over my hips.
I hiss when the air hits my skin—cool and sharp after all that heat.
Her dress pants are next. Unzipped and pushed down her hips, past her thighs, until she’s bare in my lap.
Skin on skin. Warm and so fucking intoxicating I almost forget how to move.
She wraps her arms around my neck. “You good?”
I smile, palm her hips, and guide her forward. “Better than good.” I line myself up with her and let her sink down onto me, inch by inch, until I’m buried deep inside her. We breathe out at the same time.
It’s not fast.
It’s not hard.
It’s perfect.
Bailey moves in slow, fluid rolls—rising, falling, pressing her chest against mine with every breath. Her hands curl onto my shoulders. Mine splay wide across her back. She sets the rhythm. I match it.
And together, we move like this is the only place we’ve ever belonged.
Her lips find mine again, tasting like starlight and relief. “I’ve missed this.”
“Me too.” I kiss her jaw. Her throat. The swell of her breast. I let my hands map every inch of her, memorizing her curves like I’ll never get this moment again.
Because I don’t know. I don’t know what this means, if anything.
It’s one thing when it’s all four of us—that’s release and passion and pent-up years of lust.
This is something else, something I feel in my chest, my DNA. She’s always been there, as long as I can remember. Ever since I saw the pretty brown-haired girl down the hall when we were kids. I locked eyes on her, and everything else fell away.
Just like now.
She gasps when I thrust up harder. “More.”
The desperation in her voice sends a thrill through me. I give her more. But I won’t rush it. Not with her.
Her body starts to tremble. Her breath catches. I feel her start to fall apart around me and grip her hips tighter, holding her steady. She clenches against my cock, owning every inch. But she’s holding back. She bites her lip, like she’s thinking too hard or something.
“Let go,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”
Recognition lights her from within. I caught her thinking, and she knows it.
She gives half a nod, and that tiny bit of permission I gave her was all she needed.
Her whole body shakes on me, tenses, and then she comes with a cry pressed against my neck, full-body and unrestrained, clinging to me like I’m the only solid thing left on this rooftop.
And when she comes down—shaking, smiling, sated—I follow. My orgasm hits low and hard, my body tensing as I spill into her, teeth clenched, eyes locked on hers.
We stay wrapped around each other for a long time. No words. No rush. Just skin and sky and safety. Eventually, she rests her head against my chest. I pull the blanket back over us, tucking her in as she yawns.
“Still awake?” I ask, brushing a hand through her hair.
“Barely.”
I press a kiss to her temple. “Sleep, then. I’ve got watch.”
She hums. “Still such a soldier.”
“Only for you.”