LOGINNICKThe basement smells the same. Concrete and old blood and whatever's left of a man who used to smell like cologne and control.Alex is still cuffed to the pipe. Weeks in this room have changed him. His face has healed from what I did to it but something else hasn't healed, something behind his eyes that's gone flat and patient in a way that used to only live in Edward's face."You're back," he says. "Did the cure work?""There is no cure."Something flickers across his face. Not disappointment. Curiosity."None of the doctors could reverse it," I say. "None of the healers. None of the compounds. You built something nobody else understands and you're the only person who knows how to undo it and you're never going to tell me.""Correct on all counts.""So I stopped looking for a cure."Alex tilts his head."She's remembering," I say. "Not because of medicine. Because of me. Because of stories and coffee and pancakes and every small thing I did for months before you put a needle in h
EMILYI don't sleep.I lie in the grey sheets with the smell of him still on my skin and the echo of his voice in my ears and I watch the streetlamp throw amber light across the ceiling until the light fades and the sun comes up and Mia's alarm goes off in the next room.I hear her feet hit the floor. I hear her open Mason's door and whisper something about pancakes. I hear Mason's low, serious reply, the words too quiet to make out but the tone unmistakably patient. He's always patient with her. He got that from Nick.Everything comes back to Nick.I drag myself out of bed and pull on jeans and a sweater and stand in the bathroom doorway staring at my reflection. My lips are swollen. My hair is a mess. There's a mark on my collarbone that I don't remember getting, a faint purple bruise the exact shape of his mouth. I touch it with my fingers and my stomach flips.Last night I had sex with a man I've known for three weeks. Last night my body recognized him in ways my mind can't explai
EMILY I don't remember how we got to the bedroom. One moment we were on the couch with my hand in his hair and the ice pack dripping onto the floor, and the next we were moving through the dark apartment, his mouth on my throat, my back hitting the wall beside the hallway, his good hand sliding under my shirt and his injured arm held carefully at his side because even now, even when he's kissing me like I'm the only source of oxygen in the room, he's protecting the shoulder he threw in front of a car for my daughter. "You need to tell me if I hurt you," I say against his mouth. "You're not going to hurt me." "Your shoulder—" "Is fine." "You have stitches." "I've had worse." He walks me backward through the bedroom door. "I don't care about the shoulder. I don't care about the stitches. I care about you, right now, in this room, telling me you want this." "I want this." "Then stop worrying about my shoulder." I pull his shirt over his head. The bandages wrap around
I stand in my kitchen. The pad thai containers from last night are still on the counter. The napkin with his handwriting. Extra lime. No peanuts. The way you like it.I pick up my phone.*Come upstairs. Bring the stories.*Three dots. Then:*Are you sure?**I’m sure. But just stories. Nothing else.**Okay.**And bring ice for your shoulder.**Okay.**And Nick?**Yeah?**If you try to kiss me I’m pushing you off my balcony.**Noted.*He knocks four minutes later. Two knocks. My hand is on the doorknob before the second knock finishes and I stopped pretending that bothers me somewhere between the punch and the pasta story.He’s holding an ice pack and two bottles of water and he’s changed into a t-shirt and his hair is messy and his left arm is still held against his body and he looks tired and hurt and careful and something else underneath all of it that I can see but won’t name. “Sit,” I say.He sits on the couch. I sit beside him. Not the opposite end. The middle. Close enough that
The punch is sweet and cold and I hate that it’s good. “Told you,” Nick says. “One drink doesn’t prove anything.” “Your face is proving everything right now.” “My face is NEUTRAL.” “You scrunched your nose when you tasted it. The same scrunch you make when Mia does something cute and you’re trying not to react. Your whole face contracts for half a second and then you flatten it out and pretend nothing happened.” “I don’t scrunch.” “You’re scrunching right now. Thinking about the scrunch is making you scrunch.” “I’m going to throw this punch at your head.” “That would be a waste of good punch.”I take another sip. He watches me take it with an expression I’m getting tired of seeing, the one where his grey eyes go soft and his mouth almost curves and he looks like a man watching a home video of something he lost. “Stop looking at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like I’m doing something remarkable. I’m drinking punch, Nick. It’s not a miracle.” “You called me Nick three times i
EMILY“I said no, Nick.”“It’s a school recital. Both kids are performing.”“Then we go separately. You take Mason. I take Mia. We sit on opposite sides of the auditorium.”“They’re performing TOGETHER, Emily. Mia and Mason are doing the duet. They’ve been practicing for two weeks.”“Then we sit on opposite sides and clap at the same time. Co-parents do that. That’s what we are.”“You keep saying that word like it’s a shield.”“It’s not a shield. It’s a FACT.”We’re standing in the lobby of the apartment building and his jaw is tight and my arms are crossed and Sage walked past us three minutes ago and turned around and walked the other way because the air between us could strip paint.“Fine,” he says. “Separate cars. Opposite sides.”“Fine.”“Fine.”I walk toward the front door. Mia is beside me, holding my hand, her costume bag over my shoulder. Mason is with Nick three steps behind us. I can feel him back there the way I always feel him when he’s close, a pressure in my chest that
MASONThe car stops and Jessica pulls me out and we’re somewhere with little planes.Not the big airport where Dad took me once to watch planes land. A small place with a fence and a gate and a man who waves Jessica through without checking anything. It’s dark and the lights on the ground are blue
NICKCole is sitting across from me looking like a man who already knows how this ends.“Tell me again,” I say.“I set up the resort. Donated the trip through Reed Consulting. Structured it through the school competition.”“Without telling me.”“You wanted time with her outside the apartment. You s
I go downstairs.His door opens in three seconds. Sweats. T-shirt. Mason asleep on the couch behind him.“You knew I’d be at the gala.”He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. He holds the door open wider and looks at me with the steady grey eyes of a man who’s been waiting for this.“Come in.”“I do
Nick and I stare at each other across the hallway. “We’ll use Alexander’s bond,” I say before Nick can speak. Dr. Harrison’s expression shifts to concern. “Ms. Winters, I need to be very clear about the risks—” “I understand the risks. Alexander will bond with her.” “Emily—” Nick starts.







