Chapter 116
Chapter One Hundred Sixteen
Kit
I don’t know if this is a good idea. It probably isn’t. But I follow Roderick anyway.
Because it feels important to him. The way he asked. The edge in his voice. The way he looked at me, as if I said no . . . Something vital might slip through his fingers. And maybe that same thing is slipping through mine too.
Besides, the dog is ridiculously cute. I might steal him if this conversation doesn’t go the way I want.
Okay, I won’t actually kidnap the dog—but I might bribe Roderick into letting me walk him daily. As long as he lives close enough for it to be a casual, not-at-all-emotionally-desperate arrangement.
“Okay, but this better be good,” I say as we walk. My arms are crossed, but it’s more for protection than sass. I’m holding in so much already.
“It could be great . . .” he says, then pauses, grinning. “Or terrible.”
“Not exactly reassuring, Wild.”
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth tilting just enough to undo my defenses. “I missed you calling me that.”
We cross the street, and he slows just slightly as if drawing this out, like the moment deserves more time.
“Your father suggested I use it professionally,” he adds. “Told me the public would eat it up. I said no.”
I squint at him. “Why not?”
“Because it was yours,” he says simply, as if that explains everything. “It was always yours.”
“Even after we broke up?” My voice sounds small, almost embarrassed, like I’m asking a question I shouldn’t still care about.
He looks at me then. And it’s not just a look—it’s a confession. “It’s always been yours, Kit.”
We don’t say anything else as we enter the building.
It’s new, sleek, and too polished to feel anything but a little intimidating.
The doorman greets me like I belong here, which is both flattering and jarring.
Roderick introduces me to Leonard and says that if things go well, I should be added to the visitor list.
“The list?” I scoff, as he steps into the elevator beside me. “Cocky of you to think I’ll be visiting again.”
He shrugs like it’s already decided. “If you don’t like my place, we’ll move.”
I blink. “We?”
The elevator dings and we step out.
“This lease is just for a year,” he says. “Next June, I might get a house. Something with space.”
“For what?”
He looks down at the dog, then back at me. “He needs a backyard. Don’t you think?”
There’s something in the way he says it. Casual, like he’s still playing it cool. But underneath it—hope. A softness curling through his words. Not just about the dog. Something else.
His apartment is nice—too nice for someone who pretends he’s not putting roots down—but I barely register the décor before I’m asking the question that’s been simmering since we got in here.
“Why?” I ask. “Why now?”
He pauses at the door to his place, unlocks it, and pushes it open.
“Because it’s time,” he says quietly.
The moment the door swings open, the pup lumbers in and flops down like he owns the place. The leash falls away, and he sits with a goofy regality, tongue hanging and tail swaying once like a sleepy wave.
“I mean yeah, he’s huge,” he says, watching him trot across the room. “Otis needs a house—a home. Probably a cat to make some music with.”
I drop to my knees in front of the dog, heart pounding as the familiarity sinks in. I reach out, touch his fur. Soft, thick, and warm under my palm.
“Otis?” I ask, but the answer’s already crashing into me. I scratch behind his ears like I’ve imagined doing so many times. “My Otis?”
“He’s mine,” Roderick says, but his voice has that teasing lilt. “You’ve been trying to steal him from the beginning. I only let you name him because I was weak.”
And then it hits me.
Not just in thought, but in my entire fucking body. Like a chord finally resolving.
Of course.
Of course it’s him. He’s DeadStrings.
Who else could’ve been speaking to my soul in lyrics and silence and three a.m. confessions? Who else would’ve known what I needed before I even typed the words?
“Of course it’s you,” I whisper, not to him—more like to the universe, or maybe to myself. Like my body already knew and is now catching my brain up.
Roderick doesn’t say anything. He just watches me. His eyes soft, his jaw tight, his whole body holding back like he wants to move but won’t unless I do.
There’s a shift between us, electric and sudden, and fuck if it doesn’t feel like a climax waiting to happen.
I look at him from the floor, my hand still resting on the dog’s back. His chest rises and falls in this slow rhythm that says he’s waiting. Bracing. Daring to hope.
And I’m not sure if I want to kiss him or punch him or crawl into his lap and beg him to make me forget every second we spent apart.
Because it's him.
It’s always been him.
And now . . . he’s right here.
In front of me. Real. Tangible. There’s no distance, or waiting for him to respond. No usernames to hide behind. It’s just him. Roderick Wilder. The boy who once broke my heart. The man who's been stitching us back together piece by anonymous piece.
“Last night . . .”
My voice is too soft, barely grazing the tension thickening between us. “You were afraid to tell me who you were, right?”
He nods. Slow. Small. As if anything more would crack this moment wide open. His jaw tightens like he’s bracing for something inevitable, something that could rewrite everything between us.
“When . . . how did you know it was me?”
I rise. My legs complain from crouching too long, but I don’t care.
I only see him—his eyes a storm barely contained, the control he always holds starting to unravel at the edges.
I move closer, pulled in by something that’s never stopped simmering.
Something carnal, wild, and devastatingly familiar.
“When your dad died,” he says, low and rough, his voice catching on something raw.
“You told me you knew he was a monster. You learned everything—what he did to me. To the band. Everyone he touched. You signed it with a K. The way you used to when we were young and you sang your letters into my skin.”
My breath stumbles.
I take another step. His eyes track mine, his body taut like he’s seconds from breaking. From lunging. From begging.
“And then?” I whisper, barely trusting my voice.
“Then I lost my fucking mind.” His laugh is bitter.
“I wasn’t okay. You knew that. You knew what he did to me.
I didn’t know how to handle that.” His hand rakes through his hair, the kind of gesture you only make when you’re close to shattering.
“Julian had the accident and I . . . I unraveled. I couldn’t decide if talking to you would keep me sane or ruin me all over again.
Eddie had to fly to San Francisco just to make sure I didn’t burn the whole damn house down while trying to keep myself together. ”
I reach out, barely touching his chest. Just fabric between us, but his breath hitches like it scorched him.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” I say.
The words don’t feel like enough. They never will.
He shakes his head, eyes locked on mine. “It’s not your fault. None of it is. I’ve worked through it because it was a me thing. Now . . . now I just—fuck, I’m hoping you’ll give us that second chance.”
A beat passes.
“To fall forward?” I murmur, my heart hammering in my throat.
“Yes,” he breathes. “To fall with this new version of you, even though I never stopped loving the old one.”
Then he pulls me into him.
And the world fractures.
His mouth crashes into mine, without hesitation.
It’s just pure, pent-up need, years of longing bleeding into one impossible kiss.
His lips are hot, demanding, and desperate.
He tastes like regret and hope, like home after a storm you weren’t sure you’d survive.
I clutch his shirt, twist it in my fists as his hands find my face, my waist, my back, like he’s mapping me out, memorizing the places that still make me gasp.
He deepens the kiss, tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that’s all teeth and ache. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s filthy and real and alive.
I moan into his mouth, and he growls—low, primal—before gripping my hips and slamming me against the nearest wall. I barely register the thud. I only feel him. All of him. Pressed hard against me, thick and straining and fucking mine.
“I dreamed of this,” he says against my throat. “Of you. Begging. Coming. Falling apart with my name in your mouth.”
Heat rushes through me. My hands slide under his shirt, greedy, frantic. His skin burns against my palms. Every muscle, every scar, every inch of him is branded into me, like we were made to fit this way—lips bruised, breaths stolen, hearts exposed.
He kisses me again. Deeper. Slower this time. It’s like a promise between souls.
I whimper when he pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are blown wide, pupils dark with want, lips swollen from the kiss that rewrote everything.
“You’re it, Kit,” he murmurs. “You’ve always been it.”
And right then, I know.
This isn’t just us circling the past.
This is the moment the earth shifts beneath our feet. The moment I let myself fall forward. Not into a maybe or a second chance.
But into him.
Finally, mercifully, coming home.