Chapter 9 #2
“I wasn’t.”
“No. You looked dangerous.”
“Good.”
The silence between us changes shape. Less defensive. Less sharp.
I turn to face him.
Huge mistake.
He’s so close that our breaths mix. The city glitters behind him, but he blocks out everything else.
“What are you doing, Brooklyn?” The nickname slips out before I can stop it. Impulsive. Unplanned. A crack in my control.
He goes very still. When his eyes meet mine, I catch the smallest sign that he likes this far too much.
“People are staring,” I manage.
“They are.” He smiles. “Because you’re stunning.” His eyes sweep over my face, slow and assessing. “And I’m the lucky bastard who gets to take you home tonight.”
The words come out polished. His voice doesn’t.
“Smooth.” I laugh because I need the distance humor gives me.
“Observant,” he corrects. Not laughing at all.
His body radiates warmth through the thin silk, and I realize my breathing has synced with his. In. Out. Steady.
“Relax,” he says quietly. “We’re in public.”
When I stay silent, he lifts an amused eyebrow.
“You turned around on me, Flash. I’m just standing here.”
A laugh escapes me, tension uncoiling for a single beat.
But he doesn’t step back. His hands stay braced on the railing. His body stays inches from mine. The space between us hums with everything we’re not saying.
“We should go back inside,” I manage finally.
My hand lifts before I can stop it and smooths once over his lapel. A tiny, ridiculous gesture. Intimate enough to register. Possessive enough to surprise me.
His eyes drop to my hand. When he looks back at me, his gaze is darker than it was a second ago.
“Probably,” he agrees.
For one stretched moment, we just stand there. Too close. Not close enough.
Then voices drift toward us—other guests heading to the balcony. Leo steps back easily, offering his arm.
“Come on. Let’s go mingle some more.”
I take it, and we head back inside.
The night spills onto the steps as we exit. Cameras surge forward, voices overlapping.
“Lionheart!”
“How long have you been together?”
We stop, or maybe he makes the choice and my body follows.
“Liz, how does it feel to be with the champ?”
Another voice cuts through, sharper.
“Can we get a kiss for the cameras?”
Every possible answer collides at once. I open my mouth, but Leo’s hand settles at my waist. He doesn’t look at the reporters. He looks at me.
It’s a question—quiet, contained—and it lasts half a second. I could dodge. Laugh it off. Turn my head and let him play charming.
Instead I think about the balcony, the way he said “stunning” like it cost him something, the way the whole city has been trying to name me all night.
Let them.
I give him the barest nod.
His hand tightens slightly, a warning and a promise, and then he leans in.
His mouth is warm and firm against mine, lips fitting like they already know the shape. I taste mint and something darker underneath—coffee, cedar, the faint bite of adrenaline he hasn’t fully burned off yet.
No tongue. No rush.
Just pressure. Just control.
One hand stays at my waist. The other lifts to my jaw, steadying me, like he’s anchoring the moment instead of taking it.
The rest of the world drops out under the contact. The noise fades. The crowd disappears. There is only the solid certainty of his mouth and the way he’s touching me.
When he pulls back, it’s slow, like he has to tell his body to do it. His forehead rests against mine for a single breath.
His hand at my waist tightens, hard enough to feel, not hard enough to show.
“Fuck,” he whispers, so quiet only I hear it.
The cameras explode. I barely register them.
The car ride home is quiet.
Leo drives with one hand on the wheel. The other rests on the console, fingers tapping once before going still. Neither of us speaks.
I watch the city slide past the window, lights smearing into color. My body keeps replaying the kiss without my permission—the way his mouth lingered, the way that whispered fuck sounded like it surprised him. The way his forehead rested against mine like he needed the second.
The way he shut that man down without hesitation.
At the red light, his hand shifts on the console. Not touching me. Just close enough that I feel the warmth anyway.
“That was good,” I say, because the silence is starting to feel like a test. “For the photos.”
“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “The photos.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. One hand stays fixed on the wheel like he needs the grip.
The light changes. He pulls forward.
We stop in front of his building. He cuts the engine but doesn’t move right away, gaze fixed ahead, jaw set like he’s considering something he hasn’t fully decided how to phrase yet.
“Liz.”
I turn.
“While Drake’s still in the city,” he says evenly, “it makes sense if I drive you to work and back.”
The answer puts me on guard immediately. “That’s not necessary.”
“Maybe not,” he agrees. “But I’m in recovery, and I’m around. And it sends a clear message.”
I turn toward the window. “So you’re assigning yourself as protection duty.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to,” I say quietly.
“I want to.”
Those words again.
We ride the elevator in silence. Walk down the hall. Stop at my door.
“Goodnight, Leo.”
“Goodnight.”
I step inside and close the door.
I’m still in the dress. Still aware of the echo of his hand on my waist. Still feeling the imprint of his mouth long after it should have faded.
I catch my reflection in the mirror—flushed, eyes too bright, something unsettled under the surface.
This was supposed to be simple.
Temporary. Strategic. Contained.
But nothing about the way he kissed me felt rehearsed. Nothing about the way he stepped in tonight felt performative. He didn’t ask how I wanted it handled. He didn’t check the optics first.
He just acted.
That’s what stays with me. Not the kiss. Not the cameras. The speed of his certainty.
I sit on the edge of the bed, dress still on, heels discarded behind me.
The unease keeps moving under my skin. As if I’m taking the first step toward something I promised myself I’d never do again.