Chapter 20 #2
The air between us shifts again. Tightens. The space feels smaller, even out here. But before I can say—or do—anything else, she tucks her hair behind her ear and takes a step back.
“Come on, Winters. It’s been a long day.” She turns back in the direction of our hotel, and I follow reluctantly, not ready for the night to end.
We pass a narrow alleyway strung with soft bistro lights and the faint sound of an acoustic guitar drifting out of a small, tucked away café. Without thinking, I catch her wrist. “Come on,” I say.
“I thought we were calling it a night.”
“Plans just changed.”
She could say no. She could remind me that we’re here for work, that there are lines that cannot be crossed. But instead, she lets me guide her down the brick path, toward the glow emanating from the café’s windows.
It’s a nice night, so we grab a small table on the patio, in the corner, away from the few other groups.
We each order a drink, and the server deposits them at our table without much fanfare.
The place feels like a hideaway, a forgotten spot, tucked away from everything and everyone.
For a minute, we just sit here. No Cove talk.
No press strategy. Just the faint sound of her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.
“This was always your move,” she says after a moment, glancing at me. “Detours. Distractions.”
“Maybe I just wanted to keep you in my orbit a little longer.”
That same old spark flickers in her eyes. “You’re impossible,” she mutters, but there’s no bite in it.
“You didn’t seem to mind, back then.”
“I didn’t. That’s the problem.”
Her eyes glisten as she pulls in a breath and I feel it in my core. For a while, we just sit there, letting the quiet do what words can’t. The tension’s still there, but it’s gentler now. Less like a wound, more like a magnet.
“Ford,” she says, voice low, serious now. “What are we doing?”
I meet her gaze. Steady. Unflinching. “Having a drink. Taking a detour.”
“I know you, and you’ve always got a plan,” she says, and there’s a spark there now. One I haven’t seen in a while. She taps her fingers in time to the music, a habit I remember.
“You want to dance?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Her eyes flick to mine, defiant. “No.”
“Liar.”
Her lips curve, betraying her. “There’s no dance floor.”
I stand, hold out my hand. “We’ll improvise.”
She stares at me, weighing the offer. With a dramatic sigh, she sets down her drink and takes my hand, letting me pull her from her chair. Her fingers slip into mine, warm and certain, like they never forgot the shape of this.
“Always reckless, Winters,” she says as I pull her gently toward the open space near the edge of the patio.
“Only when it’s worth it.”
The guitarist shifts to a slower, bluesy rhythm. Just enough to move to. I rest a hand on her waist, feel her tense—just for a breath—before she melts into it. Her other hand finds my shoulder. Familiar. Natural.
We move slowly. Just the rhythm, the press of her body against mine, the faint sounds of conversation from nearby tables fading into the background.
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” she says, tilting her head back to look at me.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I reply, spinning her slowly. “You’re just good at making me look like I know what I’m doing.”
She shakes her head, smiling up at me, “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
She’s laughing now, breathless as we move, and it knocks something loose in my chest. For a few perfect moments, it’s like we’re twenty-one again. No walls. No wounds. Just this.
We keep dancing. It feels good, effortless. Like breathing. When the song winds down, I spin her one last time, pulling her back in, closer now. She doesn’t step away and neither do I.
“See?” I say softly. “Detours aren’t so bad.”
Her smile could bring me to my knees.
“You might be right, Winters.”
“I missed you, June.” Her fingers tighten against my chest, right over my heart, like the words hit her physically. “I missed you so much it still pisses me off sometimes,” I add, my voice dropping lower, meant only for her.
She doesn’t look away. For once, she lets me see it. The way her walls start to crack. The way her chin tips up like she’s fighting to stay steady.
“Ford…” she whispers. My thumb brushes her side, slow and reverent, as if reminding both of us that we’re still here. Still breathing.
“I’m not asking for anything from you tonight,” I tell her quietly. “I’m not expecting you to fix what broke. I just needed you to know… losing you never stopped hurting.”
The words settle heavily between us, bringing an end to the lightness of the last few minutes. But I had to say them.
Her hand drifts up, fingertips brushing my jaw, light as air. That small, familiar touch wrecks me more than a kiss ever could.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” she says, her voice barely audible.
“I know.
It’s not forgiveness. It’s not closure. But it’s honest and right now, that’s enough.
For a long, breathless moment, we just stand there—swaying slightly, holding onto each other like maybe, just maybe, the world can pause for us tonight.
When she rests her forehead against my chest, I let my hand slide up to the back of her neck, cradling her gently.
Not pushing. Just holding onto her because after everything, I think that’s what we both need most.
We walk back to the hotel in silence. Her hand brushes mine once by accident.
When it happens a second time, I grab it.
She doesn’t pull away. And I don’t let go.
I intertwine her fingers with mine, grounding myself in the fact that after all this time, she’s here, beside me.
It’s stupid how good it feels. It’s like slipping back into something so comfortable and familiar.
Something I almost stopped believing I ever had.
It feels like the whole world has collapsed into this small point of contact—her hand in mine. In this moment, there is nothing else that matters.
For a man who’s built walls around everything he touches, holding her feels dangerous, but for the first time in a long time, it feels like the kind of risk I’m willing to take.
The lobby’s quieter now. We ride the elevator in silence, but the air between us crackles. When we reach our floor, my pulse hammers louder than our footsteps.
Room 312.
She stops in front of her door, keycard in hand, but she doesn’t move. Her throat works as she swallows, and I see the exact second her resolve starts to crack.
And then I don’t think.
I move.
I back her into the door, one hand braced beside her head, the other curling around her waist, pulling her flush against me. Her breath shudders and for a beat, we just stare at each other.
And then she’s on me, or maybe I’m on her.
Doesn’t matter. Her hands fist in my shirt as my mouth crashes into hers—frantic, hungry, like all that pent-up tension has nowhere else to go but this.
Her back thuds softly against the door, and she moans.
I devour her gasp, my fingers sliding up into her hair as her body arches into mine.
She tastes the same. She feels the same. But this isn’t the past. This is now and right now, I need her more than I need to breathe.
Her hands tug at my jacket, pulling me closer. I break the kiss just long enough to murmur. “Tell me you want this too.”
Her eyes, dark and wild, meet mine.
She doesn’t say it. Instead, she pulls me back in. Hard.
And that’s all the answer I need.