10

The coffee shop door swings shut behind us, and the city hits like a wave—car horns, a delivery truck backing up with that high-pitched beep, a group of girls laughing somewhere down the block. My hand is still in his. I don't want to let go.

The penthouse is seven blocks east. We could take a cab. We should take a cab. But Caleb's thumb traces a slow circle on the inside of my wrist, and I can't think about logistics.

"We should probably—" I start.

"Walk," he says. "Give ourselves a minute."

A minute. Like a minute will be enough to build the walls we need to walk through that door and pretend we didn't just—pretend I didn't just spread myself open for him on a leather sofa while my brother was two floors down.

We walk. His hand finds the small of my back, palm flat, guiding me around a group of businessmen spilling out of a bar. The touch is brief, automatic—then it's gone, and I feel the absence like a cold spot.

"What do we tell him?" I ask.

"Nothing." Caleb's jaw tightens. "We tell him nothing. You were tired. You went to bed early. I came home late. End of story."

"And the dress?" I look down at myself. The slip is short, the slit high. I shoved my jeans and top into my bag before I left Lux, but I'm still wearing Sasha's dress under my jacket. "I can't walk in wearing this."

He glances at me, and something flickers in his eyes—heat, quick and banked. "You could wear anything. He'd still see you the same way."

"Caleb."

"I know." He scrubs a hand over his face. "There's a service entrance. Freight elevator. We go up that way, you get to your room, change, come out like nothing happened."

Nothing happened. Right. Except everything.

The blocks pass too fast. The building looms ahead, glass and steel, the lobby lit like a museum. We stop half a block away, and Caleb's hand finds my elbow, pulls me into the alcove of a closed print shop.

"Bella." His voice drops, low and serious. "Look at me."

I do. His eyes are blue in the streetlamp light, creased at the corners with something that might be fear.

"Whatever happens in there—whatever I have to say, whatever face I have to wear—none of it changes what I told you. Together. That's still true."

I nod. My throat is tight.

"I need to hear you say it."

"Together," I whisper. The word feels like a promise and a prayer.

He kisses me then—quick, hard, his hand cupping my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. It's over before I can sink into it, and then he's stepping back, running his fingers through his hair, turning into the man who walks into that lobby like he owns it.

The service entrance is around the back, through a door that sticks, up three concrete steps. The freight elevator smells like bleach and cardboard. Caleb leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, eyes on the floor numbers ticking up.

Between us, the silence is loud.

"Callum asked about you," he says suddenly. "Before I left for the club. Asked if you'd come out of your room."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you were probably asleep. That you'd been quiet all day." He looks at me. "He doesn't suspect anything. But he will if we're weird."

"I can act normal."

"Can you?" The question lands softer than it should. "Because I don't know if I can."

The elevator dings. The doors slide open onto the service hallway, industrial gray, a mop bucket propped against the wall. I lead the way to the end, where a fire door opens into the main corridor. Our corridor.

The penthouse door is twenty feet away. I can hear music through it—something with a bass line, Callum's taste.

"Go," Caleb says quietly. "Get changed. I'll give you two minutes before I come in."

I slip through the door, pad down the hall on bare feet, round the corner into the living room. Callum is sprawled on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, a beer in his hand. He looks up when I appear, and his face breaks into a grin.

"Hey, sleepyhead. Finally surfaced."

"Hey." My voice sounds weird. I clear my throat. "Yeah, I crashed early. Guess I needed it."

"There's pizza in the fridge." He takes a swig of his beer. "Caleb out there still? He said he was grabbing coffee."

"I think he's on his way up." I'm already moving toward my room, desperate to get out of this dress. "I'm gonna shower."

"You okay?" Callum's voice stops me. I turn. He's frowning, head tilted. "You look—I dunno. Different."

My heart stutters. "Different how?"

He shrugs. "Less pissed off, I guess. You were in a mood this morning."

"I'm fine. Promise." I give him what I hope is a normal smile. "Just needed sleep."

He nods, satisfied, and turns back to the TV. I exhale and slip into my room, closing the door behind me.

The dress comes off in a puddle of silk on the floor. I stand in front of the mirror in my bra and underwear, and I barely recognize myself. My hair is a mess. My lips are swollen. There's a mark on my collarbone—a bruise, dark and small, the shape of his mouth.

I touch it. My fingers come away warm.

I pull on a t-shirt and sweatpants, the baggiest ones I own, and I'm about to open the door when I hear it—Caleb's voice, low and easy, answering something Callum said. Laughter. The clink of bottles.

Normal. They sound normal.

I take a breath, open the door, and walk into the living room.

Caleb is leaning against the kitchen counter, a bottle of water in his hand. He's changed too—different shirt, dark gray, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. When he sees me, his eyes flick down, then away. Too fast. Like he's caught himself staring.

"Pizza's good," he says, and his voice is steady, but I see his knuckles white around the bottle. "You should eat."

"Maybe later." I settle on the far end of the couch, tucking my feet under me. Callum's watching the game, some replay of a play from last season. I don't care about football, but I stare at the screen anyway, counting seconds until my heart slows down.

Caleb's phone buzzes. He glances at it, and something shifts in his face—a flicker of irritation, or guilt, I can't tell. He silences it without answering and slides it into his pocket.

"Who's that?" Callum asks, not looking away from the TV.

"No one." Caleb's jaw tightens. "Wrong number."

But I saw the name on the screen. Two letters. Ja.

Jade is still out there. The yoga instructor. The woman he brought to Lux. The one who watched me drop my dress and claim him in front of her.

I look down at my hands. They're steady. That's something.

The game goes on. Callum comments on a missed tackle. Caleb answers, something about the linebacker being slow off the snap. I listen to their voices weave around each other, familiar and easy, and I wonder if they can feel the crack running through this room, this night, this whole apartment.

I wonder if they can feel me, sitting here, holding a secret that's going to split them open.

Caleb's phone buzzes again. This time he doesn't look at it. He sets it face-down on the counter.

"You sure that's a wrong number?" Callum asks, grinning. "Sounds like someone's eager."

"It's nothing." Caleb's voice is flat. Final.

Callum raises an eyebrow but lets it go. He stretches, cracks his neck, and stands. "I'm grabbing another beer. You want one?"

"I'm good."

Callum disappears into the kitchen. The fridge opens, closes. A bottle cap hits the counter.

And then Caleb's eyes find mine. Brief. Urgent. He tilts his head toward the hallway—a question. You okay?

I nod. Barely. I'm okay.

It's a lie. But it's the lie we both need right now.

Callum comes back, drops onto the couch, and the game swallows them again. I stay curled in my corner, watching the light from the screen flicker across their faces, and I think about the card still in my bag. Callum's Lux card. The one he doesn't know is missing.

I think about how thin the line is between what they know and what they don't. How one wrong word, one stray look, one phone call from Jade, and the whole thing collapses.

But sitting here, with his knee close enough to touch and the memory of his mouth still warm on my skin, I can't bring myself to regret any of it.

The game ends. Callum yawns, stretches, says something about an early practice. He claps Caleb on the shoulder and heads to his room, and the door clicks shut behind him.

The apartment goes quiet. Just the hum of the refrigerator, the distant wail of a siren eight floors down.

Caleb looks at me. His eyes are dark and tired and full of something I'm still learning to name.

"Hey," he says. Soft.

"Hey."

He doesn't move closer. Neither do I. But the air between us thickens, charged, humming with everything we're not saying.

"I should—" He gestures vaguely toward the guest room.

"Yeah." I stand, my legs unsteady. "Me too."

I walk past him, close enough to smell his soap, clean and familiar. His hand brushes mine, brief, barely a touch, and then it's gone.

I don't look back. If I look back, I won't make it to my room.

The door shuts behind me, and I press my forehead against the cool wood, breathing.

Outside, the city hums. Inside, my heart is still racing. And somewhere in the guest room, one wall away, I know he's lying awake too.

I climb into bed and stare at the ceiling, the taste of him still on my tongue, the weight of his promise still warm in my chest.

Together, he said.

I let myself believe it.