Chapter 23
We walk the few blocks back toward the train station in silence. Good silence, full and easy. Her shoulder brushes my arm now and then, a rhythm that feels almost deliberate. Each time, my pulse kicks like I’ve sprinted the length of the pitch.
She doesn’t speak, and I don’t press her. We’re both still carrying whatever that moment on the beach was—heavy, beautiful, terrifying. The kind of thing you don’t dare name because sayin’ it aloud might scare it off.
At the last crossing before the station, the red light holds us in place.
I shouldn’t, but I slide my arm around her shoulders and draw her in until her temple rests just beneath my jaw.
Her hair smells of salt and sun and the faint trace of whatever shampoo she uses that’s been haunting me for weeks.
I breathe her in, and her hand slides up my chest.
For the first time in years, I feel feckin’ content. Not victorious, not relieved—just … right.
When the light shifts to green, she tilts her head up and looks at me, a soft smile on her face. Without a word, she threads her fingers through mine. I squeeze back, afraid that if I let go, the world might tilt away again.
The rest of the way to the station, we hold hands, the quiet between us louder than any crowd I’ve ever faced. Only when we reach the turnstile do I release her. She glances back once, eyes bright, and that look alone is enough to keep me breathing.
The train’s already waiting. We slip into the nearest car, the doors sliding shut behind us.
She chooses a seat near the window and looks up at me, eyes wide and a little dazed, my words still settling in her chest. I sit beside her.
The train lurches forward, and without thinking, she leans into my arm.
Instinct kicks in. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
She fits there like she’s always meant to be—as if she was made for the space beside me.
My thumb finds a slow circle against her upper arm, and I have to force myself to stop before I do something stupid.
Like trace the shape of her jaw with my fingers just to see if she shivers.
It’s mad, the things running through my head. Every wicked, selfish thought a man could have. But right alongside them, there’s something quieter. The need to protect, to hold, to keep her close, just because she brings me peace.
She looks up at me, eyes shining, and murmurs, “I’m hungry. Are you up for one more adventure?”
I smile before I can help it. “I don’t want this day to ever end.”
Her grin widens, and for a few stops, we stay close, her cocooned against me, my arm tight around her.
People come and go, none of them paying us any mind. I’m still wearin’ her hat, and I’ll be damned if I ever want to take it off. Every time I catch our reflection in the train window, all I can think of is the way she laughed when she put it on me.
The train slows again, brakes hissing, and she lifts her head. “This is our stop.”
I glance up at the sign—Brooklyn Bridge–City Hall—and can’t help but smile. “Aye. Seems perfect.”
We stand, and without thinking, I reach for her hand again. She takes it, no hesitation, our fingers slotting together.
We follow the crowd off the train, through the tiled tunnels and up toward the light.
Late afternoon now, the sun low, the air cooler but still golden.
The streets buzz with sound: kids shouting in a playground nearby, a busker strumming a guitar, the hum of weekend traffic blending with laughter.
New York at its finest—alive and oblivious.
We walk side by side, hand in hand, until I see it, the sign ahead: Brooklyn Bridge next left. The crowd thickens, everyone heading the same way, and the air shifts with that strange kind of magic cities hold right before sunset.
We climb the narrow, steep stairs, the metal rail cold beneath my palm. Then, all at once, we emerge into open air.
The world expands.
The skyline rises behind us, all glass and fire, the East River stretched out below like molten silver.
The bridge hums beneath our feet, cables stretching overhead like the strings of some great instrument.
The wind whips through her hair, and she turns to me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and I swear, for a heartbeat, I forget every noise, every person, every damn reason not to love her.
All I can see is her smile—soft, unguarded, brilliant—and the way the sun hits her face like it’s choosing her over the whole city.
We walk across the bridge, hand in hand.
The air hums with the low, constant thrum of traffic beneath our feet.
The city stretches in every direction—steel and glass catching the last light of day—but the electricity running through my right hand makes it hard to notice anything else.
Her fingers, small and certain, are wrapped around mine, her pulse against my skin.
The bridge is alive with people. Tourists snapping photos, cyclists weaving past, the faint strains of a violin somewhere behind us, but all I can focus on is her.
She points things out as we walk. “That’s the Manhattan Bridge …
over there’s Dumbo … that building used to be a factory.
” Each word colored with warmth and pride.
Her hair catches the afternoon sun, streaks of gold tangled in the wind.
Her skin glows with that soft, honeyed light that only happens right before sunset.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.
She glances up at me, eyes sparkling. “You doing okay over there?
“Just takin’ it in,” I murmur, though I’m not sure if I mean the skyline or her.
We reach the first great arch. I tilt my head back, looking up at the web of cables stretching toward the sky. It’s immense—humbling. I’m a big man; I rarely feel small, but here, beneath the weight of history and her hand in mine, I feel small and powerful all at once.
I’m thinking I’ll remember this for the rest of my life when she tugs her phone from her back pocket.
“Smile,” she says, turning it toward us. I do. She lifts her arm, clicks, and the photo captures us with Brooklyn blazing behind, her smile wide, mine barely contained.
I don’t let go of her hand even when I spot a few people walking toward us in Strikers jerseys. Recognition might be one careless glance away, but I don’t care. For the first time, I don’t want to hide.
We keep walking for a while, taking it all in. The skyline painted in gold, the hum of voices, the steady rhythm of footsteps against the old wooden planks. People sell art and souvenirs along the railing, their tables crowded with postcards, keychains, and sketch prints of the bridge.
I slow near one stand, eyeing a row of hats hanging from a wire rack. “Should I get myself a hat so you can have yours back?”
She steps beside me, scanning the display. “All of them are New York Yankees hats,” she says, mock horror in her voice. “And as a Houston Astros fan, I could not support said purchase.”
That earns a laugh from me, deep and genuine. She grins up at me. “Plus, why would you want to wear any other hat? This one suits you.”
Her laughter floats between us, soft and contagious. I shake my head, still smiling, and slip an arm around her, pulling her closer as we move on.
The bridge hums beneath our steps, and just ahead, a man sits behind a folding table crowded with watercolor art, each piece shimmering in the sunlight. I’m immediately drawn to them, unable to walk past.
One of the drawings catches my eye: Coney Island, the Wonder Wheel painted in bright strokes of blue and red against a cotton-candy sky, the beach below alive with umbrellas and sunlit waves.
Next to it, a sketch of the Brooklyn Bridge captured from this very spot.
The twin arches rise in warm-gold tones, the cables stretching toward a pale-blue horizon, Manhattan glowing faintly behind them.
I can’t help but stare. The drawings look alive, like they’ve caught the heartbeat of the city itself. Coney Island and the Brooklyn Bridge—the two places I’ve shared with her today, both captured here in ink and color. Two moments I never want to forget.
“Are these hand-drawn by a local artist?” I ask, picking them up carefully.
The man’s eyes gleam with pride. “You’re lookin’ at him,” he says, voice thick with the same Irish lilt I grew up hearing in the pubs back home.
We talk for a bit—nothing in particular, everything at once—the easy kind of conversation that only happens when two people recognize something familiar in each other’s voice. Our accents tangle, and Cat’s watching us with that quiet amusement I’ve come to crave.
“How much for the pieces?” I ask finally.
“Fifty dollars each, young lad,” he replies. “They’re fourteen by ten. That’s me sole income, mind, can’t make them cheaper.”
“Fifty dollars?” I repeat, eyebrows raised.
He straightens, defensive. “Aye. It’s fair work for fair pay.”
I shake my head quickly, holding up a hand. “No, sir. I didn’t mean it that way. I just … these are beautiful. Worth far more than that.” A pause. “I’ll take both.”
He blinks, surprised, then smiles and rolls them carefully into tubes.
Cat steps closer. “What if we take a picture of you two together?” she suggests. “You could post it later, maybe help bring him more business.”
I look at her—truly look—and feel that familiar ache in my chest again. Always thinking of others. Always leading with her heart.
“That’s a wonderful idea, kitten,” I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead before turning back to the man.
“Would you mind a photo, sir? I’m goin’ to hang these proudly, and I’d like to remember the moment.”
He grins. “Not at all, lad.”
I take off the Boss Babe hat, turning it over in my hands for a second.
It still makes me smile—it’s hers, after all.
I hand it back to her, then rake a hand through my hair, and she laughs, that quiet, contagious sound that pulls a smile out of me without permission.
She lifts her phone and snaps the picture—me and the old artist, each holding a drawing, the skyline behind us like a painting come to life.
She hands me the hat back, and I put it on again, slipping back into the comfort of anonymity. The man offers his hand.
“Name’s Patrick O’Shea.”
“Roger,” I answer, shaking his.
His eyes glint. “Aye, I knew I recognized a superhero when I saw one.”
I laugh under my breath. “Don’t know about that, but thank you.”
He nods toward Cat. “You’ve brought us a lot of happy moments, lad. Makes me glad to see your eyes sparklin’ like that again. Keep hold of that pretty girl.”
Something in my chest squeezes. I pull my wallet out, fish through it, and hand him what I’ve got—nearly a thousand dollars in cash.
He tries to refuse. “Oh no, son, that’s far too much—”
“Take it,” I insist, pressing it into his palm. “Your work’s worth every bit. You deserve it.”
He accepts, eyes misty, and we shake hands again before he says softly, “Take care of each other.”
“Thank you,” Cat says with a gentle smile, lifting her hand in a small wave. The man returns it, still smiling, and we start walking again.
The planks vibrate faintly under our steps, the pulse of the city carrying through the steel. Cat’s smile hasn’t faded once.
“That was the sweetest thing ever,” she says, bumping my shoulder. “I knew from day one you had a beautiful heart.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just look at her. She keeps talking, voice bright with emotion.
“You probably changed that man’s whole day,” she goes on. “He’ll remember you for the rest of his life.”
She stops, takes off her backpack, unzips it. “Here—give me those. I’ll keep them safe.”
She slides the tubes inside, still talking, still glowing. “Honestly, I was this close to bawling my eyes out.”
Then she looks up, and our eyes lock.
The world stills.
My heart gives a hard feckin’ lurch. If I’m wrong about this, it’ll ruin everything, but God help me, I’d rather ruin everything than ever walk away from her.
And then I move.
Without thinking, I step forward, closing the small distance between us. My hand finds her waist, the other lifting to her cheek. She gasps softly but doesn’t pull away. Her skin is warm, her breath trembling against mine.
“Rogue—”
I can’t hold back anymore, so I lean down and kiss her.
It’s soft at first, tentative, like a secret being spoken for the first time. Then she sighs, melts into me, and the world tilts on its axis.
Her hands find my chest, and mine slide to the small of her back, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us. The city disappears—traffic, chatter, the wind, everything.
There’s only this. Her mouth, her heartbeat, her.
I’ve shared kisses before, but never like this. Never with this ache, this quiet reverence. It’s not just want. It’s need. It’s home.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless, foreheads still touching. She chuckles, and I feel it against my lips.
“About time,” she whispers.
I smile, really smile, and press one last kiss to her temple.
“Christ, worth every bloody second, kitten.”
The sun dips low behind the skyline, bathing her in gold, and for the first time in my life, forever doesn’t sound like a fairytale. It sounds like her.