Chapter 12
HOLDING CENTER (LEO)
Liz’s day off means the run stretches longer than usual. No rush at the end, no countdown in her stride, just even breathing and measured pace as the city wakes up around us.
She’s always moving. Even sitting still, there’s motion: fingers drumming, eyes tracking exits, her brain three steps ahead of wherever her body is.
I’ve learned not to chase.
Chasing only makes her run faster.
But if I hold center, she circles back. Every time.
I’m trying not to enjoy proving myself right.
She still beats me back to the apartment.
By the time she comes out of the shower—hair damp, cheeks flushed—I’m in the kitchen. The blender’s still warm. Same green smoothie as every morning. Fuel. Routine. Something to do with my hands that isn’t touching her.
I hand it to her when she appears.
“Will you let me make you breakfast one of these days?” she asks, taking the glass with a smile.
That sounded comfortable.
“You’ll need clearance from my nutritionist,” I say lightly. “I can get you the paperwork.”
She leans against the counter and drinks half of it in one go. “I could also just enjoy the complementary service,” she laughs. “This is really growing on me.”
I let the moment run longer than I should.
I can’t touch her the way I want. So I do this instead. Put things in her hands. Build routine. Pretend that control is enough when it isn’t.
I clear my throat.
“We should head into the city today.”
Mid-sip, she gives me her full attention. “What’s in the city? Please tell me we don’t need to go perform for a sponsor or a journalist.”
“We need to get you a ring.”
She blinks.
“An engagement ring,” I clarify, keeping my voice even.
She sets the glass down with care, shoulders going rigid. Caught off guard.
“It’s optics,” I add, faster than I mean to. “Necessary. We’ll keep it understated.”
She weighs that without helping me out of it.
“Visibility matters. Fire Island’s next weekend.” I don’t say the rest. That the idea of her wearing it locks something down in me I’d rather not examine.
I also don’t say how difficult having restraint is getting. She sleeps ten feet away, and I’m supposed to act like proximity is harmless.
Camp starts mid-August. This ends before then. That’s the line I keep touching to remind myself it’s still there.
“I don’t have to wear it all the time,” she says carefully, testing my reaction.
“No,” I agree. “Just at events. And next weekend.”
That finally pulls her full attention.
“You’re very pragmatic about all this.”
“I am.”
She picks the smoothie back up and takes another sip. “This is good, Brooklyn. I want the recipe for when I’m back at my place.”
My hand tightens around the coffee cup hard enough to matter.
She sets her glass down and pushes off the counter. “Let me go change.”
I stay rooted in place while she disappears down the hall. I rinse the blender twice. Then a third time.
By the time she comes back, she’s changed the temperature of the room. A short summer dress. Bare legs. Sandals. Hair pulled back with loose strands catching sunlight. No makeup worth naming.
Murder on sight.
I keep my face blank on principle. She grabs her bag from the chair. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out later than it should.
She settles into the passenger seat of my Rover, tucks one leg under the other, and starts scrolling on her phone.
I pull into traffic and immediately become too aware of everything: the morning sun on her skin, the coconut scent in her hair, the tattoo on her left thigh peeking from the hem of her dress.
Road. Bridge. Traffic. Anything else.
“So,” she says after a minute, glancing over. “Are you taking me to some intimidating diamond bunker where men in suits judge my outfit?”
“Verdura. It’s modern and understated. You’ll like it.”
She laughs, easy and unguarded.
Traffic slows near the bridge. Sunlight flashes across the windshield, then slips away.
“You keep saying it’s optics,” she says into the quiet.
“And?”
“And it sounds very convincing. I almost believe you.”
“Almost?” I keep my eyes on the road.
She shrugs. “You’ve been driving me to work. Making me smoothies. Feeding me dinner. Waking up at the crack of dawn to run with me.”
“Mornings are always roadwork,” I say too fast. “The only difference is my ego’s taking a beating now. You run like something’s behind you, and I keep pretending I can hang.”
She laughs again, softer this time, and turns back to the window. When we stop at a red signal, she reaches over and adjusts the air vent. Her fingers brush my hand.
Accidental. Brief. The contact is nothing. My body disagrees.
“Sorry,” she says, not looking at me.
“It’s fine.” I hear the rough edge and hate it.
She doesn’t notice. Goes back to the window. I keep my attention where it belongs.
The rest takes work.
At the next light, a guy in a delivery van glances over. He looks at her too long. Takes in the dress, the legs, the profile turned toward the window.
I angle the Rover forward on instinct, cutting off the sightline.
We turn off onto a quieter stretch, away from the heavier Fifth Avenue foot traffic. I pull into a small garage, hand the keys over, and Liz looks up at the building we’re headed toward.
It doesn’t scream luxury. It doesn’t scream anything, which is the point.
She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder, all stubborn humor over nerves.
I reach for her hand as we step onto the sidewalk. She doesn’t pull away. Just lets me take the lead like this is already something we do.
The door opens on a hush. Expensive quiet. The kind money buys. Low lighting. Pale wood. Glass cases arranged with intention. The air is cool and still, a faint mineral edge of gold and glass.
Liz slows and maps the room automatically. I stay close enough that anyone looking would read us as a unit.
A woman approaches us. Early forties, sharp bob, tailored black dress. Efficient without being cold.
“Welcome.” She smiles at Liz first, then at me. “How can I help you today?”
“We’re looking for an engagement ring,” I say. Liz blinks. I keep my expression neutral. The salesperson’s already pivoting toward a glass case.
“Are you looking for something classic, or something with a bit of an edge?”
Liz takes her time. “Understated. If I can feel it trying too hard, I won’t wear it.”
The woman nods approvingly. “Always a good instinct.”
She unlocks the case and draws out a tray, setting it between us. Liz leans in despite herself. Her shoulders release as the stones catch the light.
She reaches out, then stops herself. The salesperson gestures. “Feel free.”
Liz lifts a ring from the tray. It’s a thin band with an oval stone. It suits her. I know it the second I see it.
She turns it between her fingers, thoughtful. Clinical.
“This one won’t snag,” she murmurs, mostly to herself.
I watch the way her thumb brushes the band, slow and absent.
“For work,” she adds quickly. “I use my hands.”
“Of course,” the woman says. “That’s a smart consideration.”
Liz sets it down and reaches for another. Studies it, lips pressing together. “It’s too much.”
“Is it?”
Surprise crosses her face, quick and gone. “Yes. For the story.”
She doesn’t say us.
“Most people start there,” the salesperson says, and leaves it at that.
Liz goes back to the first ring. Almost reaches for it, then stops.
“We want something she won’t feel self-conscious about. Something that won’t feel like costume jewelry on her hand.”
I see the recognition land on Liz’s face—that I’d chosen for her and gotten it right—before she can bury it.
“Yes. Something that already belongs to her,” the salesperson echoes.
Liz picks up the first ring again and slides it on. The stone settles against her skin, a pale gleam against warm brown.
She stops there with the ring on her hand. Her fingers curl inward without instruction, drawn down as if the weight pulled instead of anchored. Her shoulders draw in a fraction. Her breathing shallows.
Then she corrects. Straightens her spine. Lifts her hand again.
“It sits low,” she says, voice measured. “That’s good.”
She rotates her wrist, checking angles, fit, function. The ring becomes an object again. Cataloged. Filed. She sets it back on the tray.
“This one. It’s fine.”
Instead of reaching for the tray, I open my palm. A question without words.
Liz looks at my outstretched hand. Then at me. She understands exactly what this looks like.
Slowly, she places her palm in mine.
I pick up the ring.
My fingers aren’t as steady as I want them to be. I make them steady, then slide the band on slowly. The metal whispers against her skin.
My thumb brushes her knuckle, half test, half admission. The shift in her breath is small, but I feel it like contact.
Then she straightens, folds her fingers in, and reclaims herself.
The wall is back up. But it went up after she let me put a ring on her.
I don’t miss the order of operations.