Chapter 30 Main Character Energy
Main Character Energy
Harlee
Iwake up with my head pounding and the distinct feeling that I made at least three questionable decisions last night.
The light bleeding through August’s curtains doesn’t help. Neither does the fact that the bed beside me is empty.
“Bae?” My voice comes out wrecked. Hungover gravel. I pat the sheets anyway, like he might materialize if I try hard enough.
No luck.
I sit up slowly, chug the water on the nightstand like it owes me money, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Cold floor. No panties. Just vibes and regret.
I pull one of his sweatshirts from a chair and tug it on, breathing him in before I can stop myself. Clean. Warm. Familiar already, which feels dangerous considering how recently we crossed that line.
The sound comes first. The soft clink of ceramic. Water running.
I follow it into the living room.
August’s at the counter, adult stickers on display, barefoot, hair still messy from sleep, filling the kettle. He glances up when he sees me and smiles like he hasn’t just destabilized my entire emotional ecosystem.
“Ey, mami,” he says softly. “?Estás bien?”
“Define okay,” I say, leaning against the island. “But yes. Mostly.”
He nods like that answer makes sense.
He pours coffee into two mugs. The good kind. The one he keeps tucked away like a secret. Hands me one without asking how I take it.
I notice. I file it away. I let the moment stretch.
August’s coffee goes untouched, steam long gone. Mine stays cradled in my hands, mostly for warmth. The apartment holds that late-morning quiet where city noise feels padded, light softened by indecisive clouds.
He leans against the counter, hip hooked, gaze distant. Not unfocused. Elsewhere.
“Washington Heights,” he says, almost to himself. “It was… different.”
I don’t interrupt. This isn’t a story he offers lightly.
“It felt like a village,” he continues. “Everybody knew everybody. You couldn’t walk a block without someone asking how my mom was. Who I belonged to mattered.”
I picture it without effort. Brownstones. Stoop debates. Music spilling from open windows. Kids everywhere, unsupervised but never unwatched.
“Summers were chaos,” he adds, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Fire hydrants open. Kids running wild. Adults posted up like unpaid security.”
“Sounds like magic,” I say.
“It was.” His smile dims. “And it was hard. You learn early how to move. How to read rooms. How to survive.”
The quiet settles.
“What made you leave?” I ask.
His jaw tightens. He exhales slow. “Wasn’t my choice. After my dad died, everything shifted. My mom fought for his benefits, but the system didn’t care. We were drowning. Her parents offered help—but it came with conditions.”
He looks toward the window, like the city owes him something.
“They wanted us back. Their rules. Their life. I knew even then what we were losing.”
A beat.
“The Heights was all I knew,” he says. “And then it wasn’t.”
I step closer, my hand resting against his forearm. He doesn’t look at me, but his fingers curl around mine.
“I always go back,” he says quietly. “It’s in me. The way I move. The way I see people. Leaving was survival. Coming back is… soul.”
“That had to be hard,” I say.
He nods once. “It was. But it made me. Loyalty. Community. Knowing who you answer to.”
Finally, he looks at me.
“My mom and my grandmother—everything I am traces back to them. My abuela taught me what belonging actually means. Not money. Not status. People.”
“You carry that,” I say.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Try explaining that in Manhattan.”
Something settles in my chest. Not sadness. Recognition.
He studies me for a beat. Focused. Present.
“I don’t want this to be vague,” he says. “Or assumed.”
He steps closer, careful not to crowd me.
“I’m not asking because last night was good,” he continues. “I’m asking because this feels right. And I don’t do halfway.”
He meets my eyes.
“I think it’s time you let me be your man,” he says plainly. “Out loud. In daylight. With everything that comes with it. If that’s what you want too.”
There it is.
Clear. Adult. Commitment.
I open my mouth—
The door swings open.
“Auggie, man, I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
Kelley’s voice cuts straight through the moment.
August reacts first, stepping just slightly in front of me. Not dramatic. Instinct.
“What the hell?” he says. “How did you get in?”
Kelley stands there in joggers and a pullover, hair damp, expression alert but unbothered. “I have a key. Might wanna check your phone.”
August’s jaw tightens. “As you can see, we’re busy. So unless the building’s on fire—”
Kelley’s gaze slides past him, landing on me. Quick assessment. Then a smirk.
“Ah,” he says. “Now I get it. Intern. Nice shirt.”
I don’t flinch. I fold my arms. “Good afternoon, Mr. Wilde.”
“Feels formal,” he replies lightly, as his eyes scan over my bare legs once, “Considering.”
August shifts, fully blocking his line of sight. “Focus, Kelley. You’re here to talk to me.”
Kelley’s smile thins. “Right. Just acknowledging the… context.”
The air tightens.
I clock the tension without stepping into it. Whatever history hums between them is old, unresolved—and not mine to manage.
“I’m going to grab my phone,” I say evenly, already moving toward the kitchen.
No one stops me.
The kitchen is cooler. Quieter. I lean against the counter and take one breath.
Last night flickers through my mind—Wynter’s set, Lucid’s chaos, August showing up exactly when I needed him to. But it’s this version of him that steadies me. Barefoot. Unguarded. Spanish slipping out without effort.
My phone sits beside his, both plugged in. He must’ve charged mine.
The screen lights up. Missed calls stack instantly.
Before I can open a single one, August’s voice cuts through from the living room—sharp now.
“What do you mean, ‘viral?’”
I still.
“A picture,” Kelley says, unnervingly calm. “Of you. With an unidentified woman. At Lucid. Looking… acquainted.”
Acquainted.
My stomach drops—but I don’t freeze.
I walk back toward the living room, pulse steady as the air thickens.
“What picture?” I ask.
Kelley looks at me then—really looks. The humor’s gone. What’s left is measured.
“You should probably sit down,” he says. “Both of you.”
Neither of us does.
August’s arm comes around me, firm and grounding. Not possessive. Protective.
“Show me,” he says.
Kelley pulls out his phone slowly, like he knows this can’t be undone. He taps the screen and turns it toward us.
August goes still.
His jaw locks. I feel the shift immediately—the controlled anger, the calculation already moving into place.
I lean in beside him, heart steady even as my pulse ticks louder in my ears, bracing for whatever this is about to be.
The photo fills the screen.
Dark. Blurry.
But unmistakable.
August.
On his knees.
Between my legs. Eating me like the Cookie Monster.
The graininess doesn’t save us. It makes it worse—like a voyeur’s memory, something snatched from the shadows.
My brain backtracks without permission.
The storage cutaway.
The curtain.
It hadn’t gone all the way to the floor—I remember clocking the thin line of light beneath it, the way August had ignored it when I tugged him closer. Standing, I’d been covered. Shadowed. Hidden by fabric and angle.
But he’d been on his knees.
Lower than the curtain line.
Visible in a way I hadn’t let myself think about until now.
My stomach drops, slow and heavy.
Not panic. Not yet.
Exposure.
The sound in the room thins, like someone turned the volume down on reality. I tighten my grip on August’s sweatshirt, grounding myself there instead of letting the floor tilt out from under me.
Okay.
Think.
“So let me get this straight,” I say, voice steady even as my chest tightens. “There’s a photo of you. On your knees. Between my legs. Online.”
Saying it out loud makes it heavier.
I lean closer, squinting at the screen, zooming in despite myself. Once. Twice. A third time.
No face. No jewelry tells. No tattoos. Nothing clean enough to pin me.
Still—my throat tightens.
“People guess for a living,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. “They don’t need proof. They just need a thread.”
August’s jaw flexes. His hand finds my shoulder, firm and anchoring. Protective without smothering.
Kelley clears his throat like this is a board meeting. “Well. Your face is mostly covered. So that’s a win.”
I blink at him.
“The only reason Auggie’s getting tagged is ‘cause people think he disappeared with someone all night,” he continues. “They’re guessing. Hard. The pic quality’s trash. Honestly? iPhone night mode did us a favor.”
He says it like sports commentary.
Heat flares sharp and fast. “You’re not helping.”
August’s hand tightens once. “Kelley.”
“What?” Kelley shrugs. “I’m being realistic. The curtain blocks her face. But with that back arch? Ain’t nobody thinking he was tying his shoes.”
“Get the fuck out of my face,” I snap, calm gone now, edge razor-clean.
Kelley grins, unbothered. “I like you. You’ve got backbone.”
“Why? Because I don’t laugh at your frat-boy bullshit?”
He tilts his head. “Exactly.”
August exhales slowly, reigning himself in. “We need to get ahead of this. Call PR. Draft statements. Quiet outreach. Whatever it takes.”
“No shit,” Kelley says. “I was trying to do that, but you have been preoccupied all morning.” His eyes give me yet another once over. “Dani flagged it. You were spotted in that jacket outside Lucid. Sleuths haven’t confirmed it’s you yet, but they’re circling.”
My stomach tightens again. Not panic.
Calculation.
“How fast?” I ask.
Kelley’s eyes flick to me, assessing now. “Fast enough to matter. Slow enough to steer.”
August turns to me fully, hands settling at my arms, grounding without caging. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I never wanted this anywhere near you.”
“I know,” I say. And I do.
“How bad is it?” I ask. “For you. For us?”
He hesitates.