Ch. 55

He found her on the fire escape, shins dangling over chipped ironwork, the sun gone deceptive low and the city peeled into strips of orange and cooler navy. Xander, carrying their dinner—cold beans from a can, plus a sliver of cheese he must’ve pilfered—sat beside her without asking, the steps groaning under his weight.

She took the can, swallowing with a grateful nod. “We’re almost out,” he said, picking at the fraying edge of his shirt’s cuff. “Pancake week didn’t help.”

“We’ll improvise.” She set the can between them, propping her elbows on her knees. “Always do.”

He raked a hand through his hair, caught a bit of paint in the process—still staining his knuckles and the roots. “What happens when they come?” He didn’t say who. He didn’t need to.

“I’ll kill them. Or you will.” The flatness in her tone was practice.

He smiled, not wide, but deeper than before, the private grin that lived for her. “Reckon you could do it?”

She looked at him, serious. “What’s one more body?”

He shrugged, shifting so his leg pressed against hers. “You get used to it.”

She stared out beyond the chainlink and the row of riot-damaged cars. She could almost see the children through the window below, their shadows darting behind the new mural, shapes of joy over scars of violence. “You’re not scared?”

He grunted. “Of them? Not anymore.” He softened the words by setting his hand on hers, palm to knuckles, callused and so careful.

She let him, let her fingers curl between his. “Good,” she said, breath just above a whisper. “Because I’m tired of losing things I want.”

Her ear burned at her own admission, but Xander only squeezed, thumb tracing the capillaries that mapped the backs of her hands. “This—” another squeeze “—isn’t a thing you can lose. Not unless you let go.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek, searching for the catch. “You say that now.”

He bumped her shoulder, play-coaxing. “I’ll say it tomorrow, too. And the day after that. I’m consistent, me.”

She laughed, sharp, sudden. “Liar. You’re chaos incarnate.”

“True.” He leaned in, lips at the side of her neck, just where her collar met skin. “But you love that about me.”

She almost denied it, but the word jammed up behind her teeth. Instead, she twisted, caught his jaw in one hand, and made him look straight at her. “Would you really burn down another city for me?”

He bared his teeth, mock-feral. “Point me at it.”

She kissed him then, slow and certain—the kind of kiss that said, Yes, I’ll stay, and Yes, I’ll kill for you, and Yes, I am so scared but it won’t stop me. She tasted paint and salt and a bit of iron, which was how you always knew it was really Xander.

By the time they broke, the sun had sunk. The world below was all electric blue. “Come on,” he said, tugging her up. “Let’s put the pack to bed, then I’ll show you how much softer I can get.”

She snorted, but followed him down, hands still joined.

*

In the quiet after lights-out, Carolina made her rounds. She paused in the hall, watching the girls sleep, proud murals glowing in the dark. She tucked blankets, pressed lips to foreheads, whispered threats at ghosts only she remembered. Finch woke halfway and demanded a story, so she invented one—about a city where every child grew wings, and all the adults had to catch up or be left behind.

Xander met her at the landing, hair damp and shirtless, a fresh cut snaking around his shoulder blade from whatever adventure he’d gotten into late. She ran her hand over the wound, not quite gentle. “You’re supposed to be setting an example.”

He grinned, teeth shining in the dark. “I did. I won the fight.”

She barely bothered rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible,” she said, but not unkindly.

He backed into their room, drawing her with him, both of them shedding the day like layers of old skin. They landed on the cot, too small for two people who’d learned survival on the edges of beds. She nipped at his ear until he shivered, and he answered by pinning her wrists above her head, mouth insistent but patient.

Every time was different, but this one felt slow. Instead of hunger, they moved with something like curiosity—Carolina tracing the old scars on his chest, learning how the thin lines converged above his heart. He mapped her spine with both hands, memorizing the way she pressed into his palm when he whispered her name.

When he pushed inside her, the world went bright around the edges, a fever-white that outshone even the grief she’d long since buried. It was the second rush, the aftershock, that undid her. He held on, stubborn and wide-armed, riding out her shake and shudder, rolling so she could rest her cheek on his shoulder.

She thought of saying something, but the idea collapsed. She stayed inside the warmth a little longer, the two of them catching breath together, the world outside not as loud as before.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, half-asleep. “I’ll be here tomorrow.”

She traced a finger along his throat, stopping just above his pulse. “I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m scared.”

He laughed, muffled in the crook of her arm. “We’ll be scared together, then.”

*

By morning, word came from the market about a new threat—raiders, or a militia, or just another gang with a hunger for power. Carolina and Xander met it the way they met everything else: together, his hand always a few inches from hers, ready, impossible, softening each other without quite admitting it.

When the children gathered in the kitchen, Carolina watched them. Saw the ones who’d never spoken before, now trading jokes. Saw the new sleep filling their eyes. Saw, for the first time, a future taking root beneath the bruised skin of the old life.

When he caught her staring, Xander raised his mug in silent toast. She raised hers back, their knuckles bumping as they reached for the same crust of bread.

It felt small, stolen, barely enough to count as hope.

But for now, it would be everything.