Chapter Nine
Minerva
The patio smells like rain.
Not the sharp, electric kind that cracks the sky open, but the softer aftermath—the damp stone under my bare feet, the cool air settling into my lungs, the faint mineral scent that makes everything feel washed clean and new.
Petrichor, my brain supplies automatically, because of course it does.
I tuck my legs beneath me on the chair and pull my sweater closer, even though the night isn’t cold.
The Vegas skyline flickers in the distance, all glitter and glass and movement, like a universe that exists separately from this quiet pocket of space.
Inside the condo, the lights are low. Shadows stretch lazily across the floor.
Kepler is asleep somewhere on the couch, finally worn out, his snores muffled by distance and safety.
I should be working. Or sleeping. Or doing literally anything other than sitting out here spiraling.
I press my fingers to my temples and sigh. “Okay,” I mumble to myself, because I always talk when my thoughts get too loud. “You’re fine. You’re just… overwhelmed.”
Tonight was too much. The game. The bar. All those eyes sliding over me like I was suddenly visible instead of conveniently ignored. People watching me talk. Watching me think. Watching me exist. I hate that feeling—the way it makes my skin feel too tight, like I’m wearing myself wrong.
“I’m just the weird girl with the ferret and the freak brain.” I stare out at the city. “Perfect scientist. Not girlfriend material. Definitely not… whatever professional athletes expect.”
I huff out a breath. “I wish I could just be normal.”
The patio door opens behind me.
I jump, heart spiking, words dying in my throat. Tristan steps out, the mellow light from the living room spilling around him. He’s holding two mugs, steam curling into the night air. He pauses when he sees me, like he’s not sure if I’ll bolt, and then quietly crosses the space between us.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sets one mug down beside me and takes the chair next to mine. Close enough that I’m aware of his warmth, but not crowding. Close enough that I don’t feel alone.
“Hot cocoa,” he says gently. “You looked like you could use it.”
“Thanks.” I wrap my hands around the mug, grateful for the heat, the weight, something solid to anchor me.
Silence stretches. Not awkward. Just… there.
Then he speaks again, softer. “You’re not weird, Min.”
I swallow.
“You’re brilliant,” he continues. “And kind. And so good at what you do that it makes me ache.”
Something inside me cracks.
I turn my face away quickly, blinking hard, but he sees anyway. He always sees. His hand lifts, hesitates, then gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch light, asking permission with every movement.
We sit there, breathing the same air, the city glistening far away.
Then he reaches for my hand.
“Can I show you something?” he asks.
I nod, barely.
He places my palm against his chest.
His heart is pounding. Strong. Fast. Alive.
“That’s you,” he says quietly. “You do that to me.”
My breath stutters, fingers curling instinctively into his shirt as the realization settles deep in my bones.
I’m not invisible.
And somehow, that scares me as much as it comforts me.
My hand is still on his chest when he shifts closer, close enough that the heat of him seeps through my sweater. I’m suddenly aware of how quiet the night is. How loud my breathing sounds in my own ears.
He doesn’t rush me. Just watches my face like it’s telling him things I’m not brave enough to say out loud.
“Okay?”
“Yes,” I say immediately, too fast, then swallow. “I mean. Yes.”
His hand closes over mine, big and warm, and he guides it lower. Slow. Careful. The fabric of his shirt gives way to firmer muscle beneath, then the waistband of his pants, the undeniable heat there making my brain short-circuit in a way that feels both alarming and… fascinating.
Oh.
I press my fingers more deliberately, curious despite myself. The change is immediate. Subtle, then not subtle at all. Heat. Hardness. A pulse I can feel under my fingertips.
“Been wanting you to touch me for so long.” His voice breaks enough that I feel it in my bones.
“It gets…” I trail off, my voice tinny and awed. “It gets bigger?”
For half a second, I’m sure I’ve ruined everything. I snap my hand away.
Then Tristan laughs. Not sharp. Not mocking. Just wrecked and breathless, like I’ve knocked the air out of him. “You’re going to kill me, Minerva.”
Something warm blooms low in my stomach at the sound of my name on his lips. He leans in, gives me time to pull away. When I don’t, he kisses me.
It starts slow. A question more than a statement.
His mouth is warm, soft, patient, letting me set the pace even as his hand settles at my waist, steady and grounding.
I melt into it before I can stop myself, my fingers curling in his shirt, my body tilting closer like it’s been waiting for this exact permission.
His tongue brushes mine, unhurried. Intimate. There’s a hint of possessiveness there now, a gentle pressure that makes my knees go weak, and my thoughts scatter.
And then the light shifts.
The glow from inside the condo spills out onto the patio, catching us at just the wrong angle. I see myself reflected faintly in the glass—slight, hunched, hands fisted in his clothes like I don’t know what to do with them.
I pull back.
“I—” My heart starts racing, panic slamming into me so fast it steals my breath. “It’s different now.”
He stills immediately. “Different how?”
“You’re seeing me.” The words tumble over each other. “Like… really seeing me. In the light.”
I fold my arms over my chest instinctively, like I can hide myself by force of will. “I’m not enough. I’m small. I’m awkward. I’m not—” My throat closes around the rest of it, old voices rising up, sharp and cruel, telling me what I am and what I’m not.
Too boyish. Too flat. Too strange.
Too much and not enough at the same time.
The fear spikes, hot and urgent. I can’t let him see me naked. Not like this. Not after everything I’ve been told. Not after Luca, and the way wanting always turned into something ugly and humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, already standing, already backing away. “I can’t—”
I turn and bolt for the patio door, shame snapping at my heels.
Behind me, I hear him say my name.
And that somehow makes it even harder to stop running.
I make it as far as the bedroom before my knees give out.
Not dramatically. Just… suddenly. Like my body finally remembers it’s been holding itself together with tension, adrenaline, and old habits for years. I brace myself on the edge of the bed, breathing hard, arms still locked across my chest as if I can physically keep the panic contained.
Stupid. Stupid. Normal people don’t do this.
I hear him before I see him. Soft footsteps. A pause at the doorway.
“Min,” Tristan says quietly. “I’m right here.”
I don’t turn around. If I look at him, I’ll fall apart. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“You didn’t,” he says immediately. “You got scared. That’s not weird, that’s honest.”
That’s somehow worse. I nod anyway, forehead pressed to the cool fabric of the bedspread. My breath comes out in short, uneven pulls. I hate that my body betrays me, that I can feel myself shaking and can’t make it stop.
“I don’t want you to regret this,” I say. “But you will.”
The bed dips slightly behind me as he sits down—but not close. He gives me space, exactly the amount I need to not feel trapped. “Talk to me. What are you afraid of right now?”
I swallow hard. “You seeing me and realizing I’m… not what you thought. That I’m not built right. That I don’t fit.”
Silence stretches. Not heavy. Just thoughtful.
Then his voice, steady and certain. “Minerva, look at me.”
I hesitate, then turn. He’s watching me like I’m something fragile and precious, not something that might disappoint him. His hands rest on his thighs, open, patient.
“I don’t want to touch you unless you want me to,” he says. “But if you do… I want you to know exactly what I see.”
Something in his tone makes my chest ache. I nod. Barely.
“Can I come closer?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He moves slowly, giving me time to change my mind, then reaches out and gently pries my arms away from my body, holding my wrists for a moment like he’s grounding me rather than restraining me. “You don’t have to hide.”
“I’ve been hiding my whole life,” I say, voice breaking.
“I know. You can stop with me.” His fingers slide to the hem of my sweater. He waits. “Can I?”
I nod again, tears blurring my vision. He pulls it up, taking it off inch by inch. Cool air kisses my skin, followed immediately by his warmth as he leans in, mouth brushing my collarbone.
He doesn’t rush to the places I’m afraid of. He kisses slowly. Sternum. Throat. The tender hollow at the base of my neck. When his hands finally cup my breasts, tiny and unfamiliar even to me, he does it like they’re exactly what he wants.
Tristan touches the parts I’ve hidden my whole life… and they stop feeling like flaws. The air is heavier than it was a few seconds ago. His hands cup me gently at first, then with clear reverence, thumbs sweeping over my nipples until they tighten into hard points.
“Look at these tits, Min,” he breathes, voice rough with awe. “So fucking pretty. Been dreaming about getting my mouth on them.”
He lowers his head and takes one peak between his lips, sucking softly, then harder when I gasp. His tongue flicks, circles, worships until I’m arching off the bed.
“Fit right in my hand.” He breathes against my skin, palming one completely. “Fit right in my mouth. Exactly how I like them. Flawless and mine.”
My breath stutters as his thumbs brush my nipples, coaxing heat instead of shame. I’ve spent years trying to make myself smaller, flatter, invisible. His hands make me feel… chosen.
“They fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Right here.”