Chapter 22
We get out of the subway and into Coney Island station, and my heart is lodged in my throat.
Rogue follows close behind, that small, impossible smile still playing at his mouth. It’s throwing me off completely, because Rogue doesn’t smile, not like this. Not steady. Not soft. Yet today, he’s done nothing but.
He stays close—careful, respectful, protective in a way that shouldn’t make my pulse skip, but it does.
Protective. God, listen to me. My hormones are narrating my life. He doesn’t even know where we are, and I’m over here imagining he’s shielding me from invisible danger.
He’s observant, though. Every time we move, his head turns slightly, taking in our surroundings, reading the world like it’s a pitch and he’s defending the goal. I try to pretend his attention doesn’t affect me, but it does. It always does.
It still amazes me no one’s recognized him, but then again, this is New York. Everyone’s in their own little orbit, and anonymity is the easiest thing to find underground. Maybe that’s why I wanted to bring him here, to show him what normal feels like.
When we step out onto Surf Avenue, Coney Island greets us in full Technicolor. Bright signs, loud laughter, the metallic rush of the rides spinning somewhere behind the skyline. The air smells of salt and oil and sugar. It’s perfect.
The light turns green, and I lead the way, Rogue following without a word.
“Let’s go to Nathan’s,” I say.
He just nods, that quiet agreement that somehow carries more weight than any sentence.
The line moves quickly, the noise of sizzling grills and clattering trays wrapping around us.
For a moment, it’s like being nineteen again, when I used to escape the city every chance I got, grabbed a hot dog, walked the boardwalk barefoot.
Only this time, there’s a six-foot-four footballer shadowing my every step.
When it’s our turn, I look at him for his order.
“I’ll have what you’re having,” he says.
It takes me a beat to process. “I’m just realizing you’re probably on some strict athlete diet. We can go somewhere else if you’d like.”
His mouth curves. “A hot dog won’t hurt, kitten.”
I order two and glance at the drinks menu. “Do you drink soda? Want to share one?”
He nods.
“One medium cola and one bottled water,” I tell the cashier.
Before I can reach for my wallet, he’s already got his card out.
“I’ve got it,” I start, but he just smirks.
“I’ve got it, kitten,” he says, tapping his card.
I step aside, pretending the move is to give him privacy with the card reader, but really, it’s to catch my breath.
When our food’s ready, we move to the condiment station.
“What do you want on yours?” I ask.
He tilts his head, thoughtful. “To tell you the truth, kitten, I think I was a child the last time I had a hot dog.”
I stare. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
“Well,” I say, grinning, “I’m glad your first hot dog in a century is going to be Nathan’s.”
He laughs, loud, genuine, full, and the sound hits me straight in the chest.
“That’s what she said,” I blurt without thinking.
His laughter turns into a quiet rumble, making my stomach do somersaults.
“I eat mine with mustard and ketchup,” I say, flustered. “You okay with that?”
“Sure, kitten.”
I add the condiments to both and hand him one. We make our way outside, weaving through the crowd until we find the steps leading to Luna Park.
I take my first bite. The snap, the salt, the warmth. It’s perfect, and I can’t help the moan that escapes me.
He chuckles low.
“I know it’s just a hot dog,” I rush to explain, “but to me, it’s a lot more. It’s about the place, the experience, and the memories.”
He takes a bite of his own, then chews. “That’s a good hot dog.”
I smile so hard it hurts. If he only knew what it means to have him here.
We walk in easy silence, finishing our food as we climb to the boardwalk. The sound changes—seagulls, waves, roller-coaster screams. The air is colder here, the breeze biting but sweet. The sun glints off the water, and the smell of salt feels like home.
He offers me the soda. I take a few sips, then hand it back. He drinks too, then stops to toss his napkin in a trash can.
“I have hand sanitizer,” I say, digging through my backpack.
He holds out a palm, waiting. I squirt a little into his hand, and he rubs it in while I hold the soda. When he’s done, I pass it back and do the same. It’s mundane and oddly intimate, our fingers brushing when the cup changes hands.
We start walking again, the planks creaking underfoot.
“Tell me about this place,” he says.
“Like when it was founded? Because I have no clue.”
He chuckles. “No, kitten. I mean, tell me why it matters to you.”
I exhale, and the wind catches the edge of my coat. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
The waves crashing fill the pause. I take a deep breath.
“When I was in school, I had a hard time being alone. NYU was my dream, but once I got here, I … didn’t know how to be happy by myself. One weekend, I was having a rough day, it was raining in the city, I didn’t want to talk to anyone, so I just got on a train and rode until it stopped.”
He listens, hands in his pockets, gaze steady.
“I ended up here. I was planning to just get on the first train back, but it was sunny, and I could smell the ocean, so I started walking. I bought a hot dog, sat on the boardwalk, and stayed until the sun went down. For the first time, I didn’t feel lost. I felt … calm.”
I swallow. “After that, I started coming here whenever I needed to breathe. When I got my heart broken. When my grandma died. When I decided to leave New York and move back to Houston. This place, it’s always been my reset button.”
We stroll down the boardwalk, the noise of the crowd fading to a hum. The gulls, the sea, the faint pulse of music from a distant carousel.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and that silence feels like something sacred. When I finally glance at him, his eyes aren’t on the ocean, they’re on me.
His gaze is steady and unflinching. “Why did you decide to bring me here today, kitten?”
If there’s one thing about this man, it’s that he doesn’t circle a subject. No detours. No easing in. Straight to the point, every time.
I glance at him, then at the ocean, trying to gather the words that suddenly feel too fragile to say. “I mean, besides the fact that you’ve never experienced New York?” I offer, stopping close to the railing that separates the boardwalk from the steps leading down to the sand.
He stops too, stepping next to me, waiting for more.
When I don’t answer right away, he lifts a brow. “If you really wanted me to experience New York, you’d have taken me to Times Square or Central Park. Rockefeller Center, maybe.”
I laugh softly. “Sounds like you’ve watched Home Alone one too many times.”
That earns me a quiet smile. Not his usual guarded smirk, but something softer. Real. It unsettles me more than I’d ever admit.
He looks at me again, the wind catching in his hair. “Out of all the places you could’ve shown me, why this one—the one that’s clearly closest to your heart?”
I swallow, eyes dropping to the ocean below. The waves move slow and easy.
“Because—” I stop, my voice catching on the word. “Because this place is a piece of me. I’ve been here in some of the happiest and some of the saddest moments of my adult life.” I take a small breath, glancing up at him. “I guess I just wanted to share it with you.”
The wind tugs at my hair. Somewhere nearby, a kid laughs, birds cry overhead, and the world keeps moving, but in this moment, it feels as if we’re the only ones standing still.
Rogue steps closer—close enough I feel the heat radiating off him, steady and grounding. His hand lifts, catching a strand of my hair the wind’s been trying to steal. He tucks it gently behind my ear, fingers brushing my skin.
Then, before I can even think, he leans down. The movement is slow, certain. His lips find my forehead in a touch so soft it almost undoes me.
“Feels like you’ve just shown me a piece of your heart,” he murmurs, the words are warm against my skin, and for a second, everything else disappears.
We walk in the sand in easy silence, the sea stretching wide and wild beside us.
The wind tangles my hair, whips through my coat, carries the distant laughter of children and the shrill cry of gulls.
The ocean is relentless today—waves crashing and curling against the shore.
Rogue is close enough that our sleeves brush now and then but never quite touch.
For a long while, neither of us speak. Then he says, “Ever since I was a lad, I trained myself to keep to myself.”
His voice is rougher than usual, low and deliberate. I glance up, but his gaze stays fixed on the horizon, shoulders tight beneath his hoodie.
“To be quiet,” he goes on. “Not to share too much. I taught myself not to show my da when I was upset or happy. Never knew how he’d react. My mum was the only one I ever opened up to. We had this … shared understanding. She knew what it was like.”
He pauses, the wind tugging at his sleeves, carrying his words away. “I only ever let myself feel happy around her. She’s been gone a while now, and it’s been easier—safer—to stay that way. Closed off.”
I stop walking. My breath catches. He keeps speaking, voice quieter, as if he’s not sure he should be saying any of this out loud. Then, finally, he turns toward me.
“But then you came around, lass, and somehow, you’ve turned my whole world upside down.”
The world tilts. The sound of the waves fades until all I hear is the thud of my pulse.
He takes a slow step closer. “I find myself lookin’ forward to seein’ you. I look for you during practice, during matches. Christ, I get distracted just tryin’ to spot you on the sidelines. Never had that happen before.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he lifts a hand—gentle, careful.
“Allow me, please, lass. I’ve never done this before, and I’d like to do it right.”
I nod, unable to tear my eyes away. His expression softens, the sharpness of him easing into something raw and unguarded.
“I wish I was better at this. Talkin’ about how I feel, but I’ve not been one to share much of anything, ever.
Still, I don’t want to scare you, and I don’t want to make things awkward for you at work, but I need you to know—” He swallows, his voice dipping low, eyes still on mine.
“Since the moment I saw you, kitten, you’re all I’ve thought about.
I’ve tried to keep me distance, but you brought me here, you opened up to me, and I feel it’s only fair I open up to you. ”
He pauses, gaze steady, voice low but certain.
“I want to know you, Cat. Properly. Not just the version I see at work, or through a lens. I want to spend time with you, learn what makes you laugh, what makes you cross. I want to know what you like, what you don’t.
The real you, outside all of this.” He takes a half step closer. “If you’ll have me.”
I just stare at him. The words don’t sound real.
This man, this impossibly guarded, beautiful man, is standing on a beach, heart in his hands, and he’s offering it to me.
The sand shifts beneath my feet, and I steady myself, trying to remember how to breathe.
His words hang between us—raw and impossible and real.
I press my hand lightly to my chest, trying to help my heart remember how to beat.
His eyes search mine, quiet and steady. “Say somethin’, kitten,” he murmurs.
I open my mouth, close it, try again. “Rogue, I—” I drag in a breath. “This, whatever it is, scares me.”
He nods once. “Aye. It scares me too.”
“I don’t want to make things weird. We work together. People talk. It could complicate everything.”
His jaw flexes, but his voice stays soft. “Maybe, but when has anything worth havin’ ever been simple?”
I laugh quietly, almost tearfully, because damn him, he’s right. “There’s something happening here,” I admit. “And I don’t even know what to call it, but … it’s there. I feel it.”
He takes a small step closer, closing the last inch of space between us. “Then maybe we stop tryin’ to name it, aye? Maybe we just let it be what it is.”
The world blurs behind him—the blue of the sky, the glitter of the ocean, the rush of the wind. All I can see is him.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe for once, I don’t need to have it all figured out.
I nod barely. “Okay.”
His shoulders relax, and before I can overthink it, I step into him. His arms come around me without hesitation, warm and solid and sure. For the first time in forever, I feel small. Safe. Like the world could fall apart and I’d still be standing right here.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head—soft, reverent. “Thank you for sharing this place with me, lass,” he whispers again, voice barely carried by the wind.
I close my eyes, breathing him in, the salt, the warmth, the faint trace of cologne that feels like it was made to find me here.
His arms stay around me, steady against the wind.
For a long time, neither of us move. The waves crash and hush again, gulls crying somewhere above, the world spinning on, but all I feel is the slow, certain rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek.
Something shifts—deep and quiet—like the tide surrendering to the moon, like gravity remembering where it belongs, and for one suspended heartbeat, it feels as if the universe itself is holding still, waiting to see if we’ll be brave enough to let this become what it’s meant to be.