Chapter 22
HEAT STROKE (LIZ)
Leo’s at the stove when I walk into the kitchen. Same as always. But different.
That’s been the problem since the Fourth of July weekend—not that he’s here, but that he’s been offering space. All that it’s done is make me feel exactly what I ran from.
He doesn’t look up right away. Which is rude because I brushed my hair this morning. Then he glances over, and his attention drops from my face to my bare legs and back up again, unhurried enough that my skin prickles.
Barefoot. Gray T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Sweatpants slung low on his hips.
I’ve been alone in my room for a week thinking about exactly this view.
Except in those thoughts, I’m not wearing clothes and neither is he.
And in my thoughts, he doesn’t stop.
It annoys me more that he’s been infuriatingly careful since Fire Island. Measured in a way that leaves me nothing obvious to push against.
“There she is,” he says easily. “You slept in.”
“It’s seven thirty,” I mutter, heading for the French press. “This is still the middle of the night for most people my age.”
He has scrambled eggs in a pan, sourdough in the toaster, berries in a bowl. Easy competence. Calm. Unavoidable.
It annoys me.
“Not working today?”
“I’m off.” I pour a cup of my favorite coffee and try not to notice the mug has already been set out for me. Right ratio, right beans, like he’s been paying attention for months. I resent how much that lands. “I’m going into the city. I need clothes and… a couple other things.”
Things I should have grabbed weeks ago. Things I would rather die than let him see me packing.
Nate and Eden brought me the basics. They didn’t go digging through my nightstand.
After Fire Island, after he gave me a taste and then pulled back like fucking me required a confessional and a rosary, my body has been a problem.
Tight. Wired. Awake in all the wrong ways.
He flips the eggs once, then looks at me. “Do you want me to come?”
I pause with the mug halfway to my mouth. The question lands harder than if he’d just decided for me.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t love you going there alone. But I’m asking.”
Absolutely not. He’s not watching me pack the things I use when I’m thinking about him.
“No need. I can go by myself. You stay here and do whatever it is you do when you’re not being… helpful.”
He arches a brow.
“You know,” I continue, waving vaguely. “Quietly competent. Lurking nearby. Making it very hard to remember how to exist like a normal person.”
Amused, he shakes his head and plates the eggs and two slices of toast. He slides one plate toward me.
“Here.”
“Don’t try to distract me with food.”
“I’m not distracting you,” he says evenly. “I’m offering breakfast.” His eyes meet mine now, calm and unmovable. “And I still don’t think you should walk into that building alone. Drake is still waiting for an opportunity.”
The name drops into the room and changes it.
“I’ll be fine,” I say too fast. “It’s the middle of the day.”
“Take the offer, Flash.”
My spine stiffens.
“What sort of fake fiancé would I be if I let you haul a suitcase on the subway in this heat? Bad optics.” He pauses. “Let me.”
I want to throw something at his annoyingly handsome face.
“I don’t need a keeper.”
“Good. Because I’d be terrible at keeping you. I’m just… here. While you carry… heavy luggage.”
It feels comforting, and that’s exactly what’s wrong with it.
“Bossy,” I mutter, and eat the eggs.
They’re perfect.
When we’re done, he tosses his keys into his palm. “Come on.”
I grab my bag. He picks up my hoodie from the chair and holds it out.
I mentioned once that his car AC runs arctic. That was before the holiday weekend. Before he stopped reaching for me. But he still remembers.
I resent the way I love him for this.
No.
I resent the way he makes it impossible to need less.
Damn it.
We step outside into the sticky morning. New York in summer is not a season. It’s an attack.
There’s two guys with cameras, one woman with a phone held high, and a couple of kids whispering and pointing. The flashes start the second they see Leo.
“Lionheart, over here!”
“Hey, champ!”
“Is that your fiancée?”
Leo doesn’t even flinch. He steps in, his hand closing around mine. His palm is wide and warm, engulfing my fingers as he pulls me closer to his side.
“Smile,” he murmurs.
I don’t smile. I bare my teeth.
“You’re terrifying,” he says under his breath.
“Thank you.”
One of the guys shouts, “Give us a kiss!”
I tense. Part of me wants to shake my head. Part of me wants to lean into him and let everything else disappear.
Leo doesn’t give me time to decide. He turns, cutting off my protest with the smallest shift, and suddenly his lips are on my cheek, brushing the skin.
He’s not actually kissing me. It’s barely a touch.
But my body doesn’t care. Fire Island hits hard and fast. His hands on my hips. His mouth on mine.
I want more.
I slam that door shut immediately. I don’t get to replay it like it was something tender. It wasn’t.
It was unfinished.
His hand settles at the small of my back, thumb tracing one deliberate curve just under the hem of my shirt, lighting me up.
I know this is for the cameras. I know it’s calculated. I also know that if he wasn’t already pressed against me, I might actually sway.
“There,” he murmurs when he pulls back, voice barely audible. “Perfect.”
He guides me to the car, still shielding me. Controlled. Strategic. Fake as hell.
He finds a spot to park, kills the engine, and turns to look at me.
“I’ll wait by the gate. You go up. Text me when you’re done.”
It’s unfair, that offer—how he puts it in my hands like control is something he can give back. But him staying in the car feels wrong. Too far away. Too outside this.
“Come up.” My voice is thinner than I want it to be. “I want you to.”
He doesn’t need to be persuaded. “Okay.”
We get out. The humidity hits harder here, pressed between buildings. My tank top sticks to my back. My shorts cling to my thighs.
Leo falls into step beside me, close but not touching. It’s too hot for this much of him.
As we walk toward the entrance, my hands start shaking. I shove them into my pockets.
Every shadow could be Travis. Every footstep. Every figure in a doorway.
The street disappears. All I can track is entry points and movement.
Two weeks ago, I lived here. Walked this sidewalk alone. Now it feels like enemy territory.
“He’s not there,” Leo says quietly. “If he was, I’d see him.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“And even if he is, he won’t touch you. Because I’ll be there. And I’ll break him.”
“That’s very sweet, Brooklyn. Romantic, even. Might cross-stitch it on a pillow.”
“You get sarcastic when you’re scared.”
“And you go all murder-poetry when you’re worried,” I shoot back.
We stop at the buzzer. I key us in. The gate clicks.
When we cross the courtyard and step inside my building, the air wraps around us. Thick. Old. The stairwell yawns ahead, painfully familiar—the narrow steps, the chipped paint, the smell of dust and floor cleaner.
I can feel the panic trying to settle in. I need to outrun it before it does.
“Last one to my floor buys coffee.”
He watches me for half a second. I see the understanding land.
“Alright,” he agrees evenly. “If you beat me, I shut up and do exactly what you say for the rest of the day.”
I glance back. “And if you win?”
He doesn’t smile.
“If I catch you before you reach your floor,” he says, “you stop running.”
That lands harder than any claim ever could. Warmth curls in my belly.
“You realize I’m really fast?” I taunt. “It’s like taking candy from a toddler.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “We’ll see.”
“Suit yourself. Because when I win, you don’t get to look at me like that for the rest of the day.”
“That’s not fair.” He steps beside me. Close, but not touching. “On three.”
“One. Two—”
I bolt on two.
The first flight feels amazing. My legs remember this. Muscle memory kicks in, that sweet rush of acceleration. The tank top, the sticky morning, the tension all burn away in the simple fact of moving fast.
I take the steps two at a time. Arms pumping.
Behind me, I hear him swear once—quiet, surprised. His feet hit the floor half a second later, heavier than mine, controlled, relentless.
By the second flight, my quads are already filing complaints. Stairs are not a track. The air in the stairwell goes hot and stale fast.
His footsteps are closer now.
I push anyway, dragging air into my lungs like I’m stealing it. Third flight. The banister blurs. Sweat slicks my spine.
“Running away?” I hate that he doesn’t sound winded.
Fourth flight. Home stretch. My legs are shaking now. Every step feels like lifting concrete. My brain starts shouting at me to slow down. I ignore it.
I’m not letting him win. I’m not letting him turn this into something I have to feel.
I take the next step, and he’s there, one step ahead, blocking the landing.
I stop short.
Words won’t come. I bend forward, hands on my knees. I can’t catch my breath. Sweat drips down my temples, my ribs aching with every inhale.
He doesn’t touch me or crowd me.
He waits.
I straighten slowly, forcing myself upright. The stillness presses harder than the run ever did.
I look at him.
His hair is damp at the temples. His chest rises and falls now, finally human. His eyes go dark. Focused, intent.
“I believe I caught you,” he says quietly. Then, “You could’ve kept going.”
“No,” I manage. I know what he’s really saying.
His expression shifts. “That’s what I thought.”
Suddenly there’s too much in the space between us to pretend otherwise. My legs are still trembling, but I don’t move. I don’t step back. I don’t look away.
I wipe sweat from my jaw with the back of my hand. “So… what now?”
He studies me for longer than necessary. When he finally speaks, there’s certainty in his tone. “Now you stop running.”
The words land deep and stay there.
I step forward before I can stop myself. My hands land on his chest. His heart is pounding under my palms.
I should bolt.
Should laugh this off.
Put distance between us like I always do.
But I can’t.
I need him and hating that does nothing to make it less true.
Frustration spills out in a short thump against his sternum. Not hard. Just helpless.
“You’re so solid,” I whisper, angry at him for it. Angry at myself for wanting him.
“I know,” he says softly.
None of it separates cleanly anymore—the run, the heat, him.
I turn and unlock my apartment door with shaking hands. Then I look back at him.
“Are you coming?”
“Yeah.” His voice is a low rumble. “I’m coming.”