Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dexter
If there’s such a thing as a perfect kiss—a perfect moment suspended between who we were and who we’re about to become—this would be it.
But it’s not just the kiss. It’s also the way her breath hitches when I lean in. It’s the way her fingers curl into mine. Like maybe, just maybe, she’s holding on too.
What I feel isn’t lust. It’s not even want.
It’s need.
It’s the ache to know her fully. To hear the stories she never tells out loud. To memorize her laugh, her silences, the way her eyes change when she’s fighting herself.
It’s a soul-deep pull to stay when everyone else leaves.
And I would.
I would stay.
If she let me, I’d spend the rest of my life learning her piece by piece, kiss by kiss, until there’s nothing left she’s afraid to share.
I don’t want to stop. I want to keep kissing her until this plane lands, until the world reminds us that whatever this is—might be impossible.
But I do stop.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to just kiss her.
I want her to look at me tomorrow and still see something worth staying for, so I pull back.
Our foreheads touch for a second—just a pause, just enough to stay close without pushing—and when I finally open my eyes, hers are already waiting for me.
Fuck.
If she knew what she looked like right now.
If she knew what she was doing to me just by staying still, by letting me in.
There’s so much quiet in her gaze, and yet it’s louder than anything I’ve ever heard.
She could end me with one word.
And maybe she should.
I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, my voice rough around the edges. “Never meant for this to turn into something you’d have to recover from.”
She exhales through her nose, slow, measured.
“Next time,” she says, “be honest.”
I nod. Then reach up and gently move a few strands of hair away from her face. “Next time for what?” I ask, even though I shouldn’t. Even though hope is a dangerous thing in my hands.
“I’m keeping the glasses, by the way. In public.” I offer her a half-smile. “It’s freeing. But I’m retiring the name swap. Though, technically, I never lied. You assumed I was someone else, and I didn’t correct you.” I shrug. “Still, it was an asshole move, I know.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “I meant more like . . . no lies between us. Ever. That’s what I want next time.”
There’s a part of me that wants to ask if there will be a next time. But instead I grin, because she’s giving me an inch, and I’ll take it like it’s gold.
“Alybear, I’m a man with no filters. You’ll get the unrated version from now on. No lies.”
She narrows her eyes. “Stop with the Alybear.”
I kiss her hand, slow and light, right over her knuckles. “No promises.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull away. That’s a good sign. A better one than I deserve.
“Fine,” I say, watching her carefully. “I’ll consider it, but I have one question.”
She gives me a look. “That sounds dangerous.”
“Promise it’s a good one.”
She stares at me suspiciously.
“How long can we stay in paradise?”
Her lips twitch. “Tomorrow’s my only day off.”
I frown. “Nope. Jules said Monday is your day off,” I clarify. “Luckily, tomorrow you don’t have any events. The point is that . . . what if we push the return to Tuesday night?”
Her eyes widen as if I just suggested that she cancel her career.
I try to soften it. “I’ll find people to help you. Whatever you need. Assistants, interns, clones—say the word. Just give me one more day.”
But her face changes. I tense because what if I offended her? This is probably what Eddie means when he says I need to learn some social skills. Either I give too much or I don’t give a shit. There’s no halfsies with me and people don’t love that.
Aly sighs and sits back a little, folding her arms across her chest. “I can’t afford to hire extra help right now.”
Her voice isn’t embarrassed. It’s more like firm.
“In fact, I have to be careful with expenses. We’re not sure what the future of our company looks like,” she adds.
“The Whittmore gala was supposed to be our moment—you know, the thing that put us on the map. But I think it kind of . . . fizzled. And now there’s new ownership, which makes me believe that they won’t hire us again. ”
There’s a knot in my chest. Because I want to fix this for her. Because I can. But I also know what it sounds like when someone’s tired of not being heard.
“I could help,” I say gently. “Not take over. Just . . . help.”
She looks at me. Not with suspicion—caution. The quiet, measured kind that builds after too many promises go unmet. The sort of guardedness people wear after learning how quickly something good can turn into regret.
“Dex, I know you mean well. And I’m grateful, really. But I’ve worked too hard to build something that’s mine. I don’t want to hand it over just because things are hard.”
“I wouldn’t take anything from you,” I say quietly. “Just stand behind you if you want it. That’s all.”
How do I explain to her that I have enough to give to those I love? Giving makes me happier than just accumulating riches that I’ll never use. My grandfather created an empire, and when he died, he left everything behind. Sure, there’s a legacy, but he didn’t take anything with him.
She nods once, then looks away like she needs to hold onto that independence for a second longer before she breaks it apart and lets me in.
I respect the hell out of that.
We sit in silence for a beat, but it’s not cold. It’s thinking space. Breathing space.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says after a while, voice low, almost embarrassed. “It probably has to do with something like running a business, managing growth. Mostly, pretending like I’m not absolutely terrified of failing.”
I nod slowly. “I don’t think anyone really knows what they’re doing. We’re all just . . . guessing. Hoping we don’t fuck it up too badly.”
Then I laugh, a little self-deprecating. “I’m getting close to forty and I’m still between . . . ideas? I can’t even commit to what city I want to live in, let alone a one-year plan.”
She lets out a laugh. Like I surprised her. “You? You own one of the biggest labels in the country. You’re a literal rock star. I thought you had it all figured out before you turned twenty.”
I shake my head. “I was born into it. That’s not the same thing. I had handlers, managers, a PR team, accountants—people cleaning up after me, smoothing out every disaster before and after it hit the papers.”
I glance at her. “But you . . . you’ve been building something from scratch.
Out of instinct, out of late nights, and spreadsheets and a million tiny decisions no one ever sees.
You’re doing it without backup. Without safety nets.
Just your gut and your grit. And I admire the hell out of you for it. ”
She doesn’t say anything right away. Just sits there, absorbing it.
But her shoulders ease, just slightly.
“I still don’t know how this works,” she says. “Us. If there even is an us. Adding you help makes things more complicated.”
“Then let’s not rush it,” I say. “Let’s just . . . stay in this. For now. One more day. No pressure. Just you and me.”
I reach for her hand again. She lets me. Her fingers find mine and hold on with the quiet conviction of someone tired of pretending they don’t need comfort.
Her palm presses into mine like we’ve done this a thousand times in another life.
Her thumb brushes against mine, and something in my chest fucking splinters.
It’s not just our hands fitting together.
It’s everything that fits within that space.
The tenderness. The fear. The possibility.
The ache that maybe—just maybe—this could be real if we let it.
The cabin is dim around us. We’re still midair, still untethered from the world below. But inside this capsule of time, this quiet nowhere between takeoff and landing, it feels like we’ve carved out something that doesn’t answer to clocks or consequences.
Maybe we crash tomorrow. Maybe this thing between us gets swallowed the second we return to gravity.
But for tonight . . . tonight, we’re still floating.
And I’ve never wanted to land less in my life.