Chapter 15 #2
She grins, brushing her fingers along the worn edge of the bench between us, as if grounding herself in the moment.
The evening air stirs the leaves overhead, casting shifting patterns of light across her face.
Then her smile fades into something quieter, more thoughtful, as she lets the memory settle.
“And last but certainly not least, Kate.” Her lips curve gently. “She’s my best friend. The one person who’s always been there for me. She’s family. Honestly . . . my favorite person.”
Then she gives a soft nod, not to me, but to herself. Like closing the cover on a story she’s done reading out loud. That’s all she’ll give. And I know better than to ask for more.
“When I saw you the other night,” I say casually, watching the horizon, “at the rooftop bar . . .”
She stiffens slightly. “Yeah, the work happy hour,” she cuts in.
“There was a man with you.” I do my best to keep it from sounding accusatory.
Cece lets out a soft breath. “Daniel. He’s my project lead. Not exactly my manager,” she says, glancing up at the sky as if searching for the right word, “but close enough.”
I turn just enough to see her face fully. “Is he important to you?”
Her brows lift. “Daniel? No, he’s . . . well, he’s smart. Charming in a practical, corporate way, I suppose. But no, it’s not like that, if that’s what you mean.”
“But if circumstances were different?”
She shrugs, then shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe. I never thought about it seriously. Things aren’t different. And now they’re very . . . not different.” She glances at me then, and the way she looks sends a sharp pull through my chest.
“What about you?” she asks. “Anyone back in your world? Someone you . . .” She trails off, and I see it. A trace of nerves behind her eyes.
I shake my head. “No. There’s little room for it in my life. I’ve seen what love looks like. What it takes from them.”
She studies me for a moment. “And what would it take from you?”
“Everything.”
“Have you ever been in love, Luc?” Her hazel eyes scan my face, waiting. Searching.
“I cared for someone,” I say, a flicker of memory surfacing.
Zalga. My childhood friend. Laughter and scraped knees, many solar cycles ago.
“But I wasn’t in love. We were just familiar.
I loved her, yes, just not in the way she needed.
Making that clear hurt, because she was . . . she was a good friend to me.”
She watches me with an expression that’s soft, almost sympathetic, though her eyes linger a moment too long before she finally looks away.
I shift on the bench, easing my arm along the backrest behind her.
Close, but not touching. Close enough that I’m suddenly aware of the warmth between us and the way the space feels charged despite the distance.
She glances up again, her tone casual, but there’s a spark of curiosity in her eyes that makes my chest tighten.
My gaze slips, traitorous, to her mouth, and I lose myself there.
I wonder what it would feel like to close that space, to stop hovering just short of contact.
I imagine the faint hitch of her breath if I leaned in just a fraction more.
Would she rise to meet me halfway, smiling against my lips like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me?
Or is that confidence just for show, an unspoken dare for me to prove I’m not afraid to take control for both of us?
Because gods, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d close the distance slow enough to make her feel it coming and boldly enough that she’d never doubt my intention. The thoughts settle in, distracting me even further, and I let them linger.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
Her voice is hesitant, and it snaps me back. I blink, realizing I’ve been staring, heat creeping up my neck. I force my attention back to her eyes, suddenly concerned she’s noticed that my thoughts have been tumbling ahead of my restraint.
“How do you know English? I heard you all speaking it. Is that your language back home?”
I exhale, relieved by the shift in topic.
“No, it’s not an official language in my realm.
My sector speaks Pomerian. But a lot of us Warpers use English, and the bar I took you to is a regular gathering spot for us.
It’s not the easiest language, but we’re taught it from the time we’re younglings.
It’s expressive, and we do a lot of missions in this realm where it’s useful.
It kind of became a favorite over time.”
I glance at her, catch the way she’s listening, and add with a grin, “But I know many of this world’s languages, so if you ever feel like traveling to other countries in your own realm, I can be your personal translator.”
She smiles back, effortlessly.
“I like to visit New York City, which makes it easier. And I’ve gotten interested in keeping up with what’s happening here. The culture. The changes.”
We keep talking. About life. About the little things that seem trivial at first, but as we move through topics, we slowly peel back layers.
Favorite foods. Music that moves us. I tell her about the spices we use in Pomerian cooking, and she lights up as she describes the first time she tried Thai food in a tiny restaurant in Brooklyn.
How she seriously underestimated the spice levels, but loved every moment.
She tells me about how her mom used to play old jazz records on Sunday mornings, and how the sound of a saxophone still makes her feel at home. How she once cried in the middle of a concert because the lyrics were too close. Too real.
Then she tells me about the Museum of Natural History.
How she used to go there alone, even as a teenager.
How she’d stand for hours in the Hall of Biodiversity, overwhelmed by the interconnectedness of life.
She recounts the first time she saw the giant blue whale suspended from the ceiling.
How small it made her feel, but also how important.
That was the day, she says, that she realized she wanted to protect something bigger than herself.
Not just science for the sake of knowledge, but for the sake of people. Of life.
“I guess I just fell in love with the world,” she says. “With how much there is to learn, and how fragile it all is. And how beautiful.”
I don’t say much. I can’t. I’m caught in the way she speaks, the way her eyes light up when her heart takes over. She’s not just talking. She’s showing me her world. And I can’t help but want to stay in it longer than I should.
Hours pass. We lose track of them completely. And somehow, by the time silence settles between us, it isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like something sacred just passed through and left its mark.
“Luc,” she breathes, my name no more than a whisper. It’s not a question. It’s surrender. The quiet falling away of walls she’s held up for too long.
I reach out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers graze her cheek, and she doesn’t flinch. Just a soft hitch in her breath.
“If this feels like too much. If you need space from me, from this . . .” My voice is firm. “Tell me now.”
But she doesn’t.
She holds my gaze, the tension in her body melting into something willing. Hopeful.
“I’m going to take your silence as a sign that you might feel what I’m feeling,” I continue, “and I don’t want there to be any doubt about where I stand. I’m deeply drawn to you. And every time I’m with you, I just want more time. More of . . . you.”
The sounds of the city below are hushed now. Just the rustle of leaves above us and the soft tap of her fingers against the paper cup still in her hand. Her face is a mixture of awe and surprise.
“I didn’t expect you,” she says, almost to herself. “Any of this.” I glance down at our hands, hers still close, steady now, even with the tremor at the edges of her voice.
“It’s terrifying how fast something can start to matter so much.”
The truth of it settles between us, undeniable. And then, without thinking, I lift my hand to her jaw. She doesn’t flinch. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, soft in a way that catches the breath in my chest.
Her gaze lifts to mine again. Uncertain. But she doesn’t pull away.
“I’ve seen so much,” I say quietly. “Lived through more than I can say. But I’ve known nothing like this. This pull between us.”
She’s still watching me. Then she leans in.
Slowly. Cautiously. Her forehead brushes mine, the contact feather-light but electric.
Her breath dances across my skin, and I feel her hesitate, like she’s still deciding if this moment is real.
One of her hands drifts to my chest, resting over my heart, her fingers pressed against the constant thrum beneath them.
She exhales, and in the same heartbeat, she moves closer and kisses me.
Soft at first. Tentative. Like she’s asking a question.
So I answer it.
One hand slides into her hair, slow and certain.
The other finds her waist, drawing her closer until she’s against me, like we fit this way all along.
The kiss deepens, unhurried, full of everything we’ve been holding back.
Her lips. Her breath. The soft way she leans into me. It all undoes something in me.
She tastes like warmth. Like sweetness. Like something I didn’t know I’d been missing until now. A soft sound escapes her as I take the lead. Not rough. Just sure. Like I already know what it’s like to have her come undone in my arms.
Her fingers tighten in my shirt, holding on like I’m the only solid thing in a world that won’t stop spinning. I trace her jaw with my hand, then down the slope of her neck slowly, committing every inch of her to memory. Still, she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans in more.
When we part, our foreheads rest together. Her breath brushes against my lips, uneven and warm. I’m still trying to catch mine, too.
She lets out a soft, breathy laugh. “That was probably a terrible idea.”