Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 21 - Chapitre 30

I hadn’t meant for it to happen like that. There had been no plan. There was no checklist, candles, flowers, or whispered declarations of love—just us. His hands on my skin made me feel like I wasn’t something fragile but something real. And now, I was curled against him in the dim glow of his studio apartment, his chest rising and falling under my cheek. My body ached in new places. My mind was soft with static, like I’d been rewired and couldn’t figure out where the old pieces fit anymore. So, this was what it felt like. To lose something and gain something all in the same breath. I hadn’t told him it was my first time. Not because I was hiding it—just… it didn’t feel like something I needed to say out loud. He had been gentle. Patient. Like he knew. Maybe he had. Either way, I’m glad he was gentle. It might not have been the fantasy the first time. I could’ve done without knocking over the folding screen and getting tangled in our clothes. But those moments made it real. I would

It was well past midnight when we shut down the laptop and folded the last park map. My back ached from sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, and my brain was fried from sorting out permit logistics, community outreach, and the walk route for the protest. At some point, I’d started scribbling half-formed slogans on a sticky note just to stay awake. Alan didn’t say much as he cleared the coffee mugs from the table and tucked the maps back into their folder. He moved like someone running on fumes—quiet, efficient, but tense. Always tense. Rufio gave a low huff from the couch, where he’d stretched himself out like a furry punctuation mark to the chaos. When I stood, he trotted after me, clearly expecting bedtime. Except I hadn’t planned to be here tonight. I hadn’t planned to stay at all. I was still in the same gray sweatpants and old NYU hoodie I’d thrown on that morning when everything went sideways. No toothbrush, no pajamas. Just me, my anxiety, and this stupid, stubborn he

The scent of coffee reached me before I opened my eyes. I stretched slowly, muscles pleasantly sore, the soft cotton of Alan’s shirt brushing against my thighs. It was long enough to count as a nightgown. Thanks to Makayla’s secure courier, my clothes had finally arrived the day before, but I hadn’t been in the mood to wear anything that wasn’t his. Alan was already up, barefoot and shirtless, working over the stove like he had all the time in the world. He glanced over his shoulder when I padded in. “You’re awake,” he said, voice low and warm. “Someone made bacon,” I replied, wrapping my arms around him from behind. “That’s dangerously attractive.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” He slid eggs onto a plate and handed it to me. “Sit. Eat. We have a long day ahead.” I wasn’t sure when breakfast had turned flirty. One minute, I was enjoying my plate of eggs and bacon, and the next, I was sitting on Alan’s lap, stealing bites from his plate. Meanwhile his hand was pushing up the hem o

The sun had barely cleared the trees when I stepped outside. Alan’s hoodie pulled over my head, and the sleeves were still too long even though I’d rolled them once already. Dew clung to the grass, sparkling like it had secrets to keep, and the air had that crisp, charged stillness that always came before something big, like the city holding its breath from miles away, waiting to see what we’d do next. The safehouse door shut quietly behind us. Alan walked beside me, a duffel slung over one shoulder, his free hand gripping Rufio’s leash as the puppy trotted at his side like a soldier reporting for duty. The SUV Makayla had left for us was parked just down the drive, black, sleek, and unassuming—the kind of car that blended in anywhere, from backroads to boroughs. I opened the back and started loading our bags—posters, backup signs, a box of printed flyers, and Alan’s battered gray folder with everything Makayla had sent encrypted to his laptop last night. It felt surreal, putting pro

By the time I rolled out of bed the next morning, Alan was already gone—up, dressed, and downstairs with Rufio, who I could hear padding back and forth by the front door like he was guarding the perimeter of a castle. The air in the safehouse was heavy, still flavored by adrenaline and the aftertaste of yesterday’s protest. But something else lingered, too. The shift. The line we’d crossed. I pulled on the pair of my jeans from the care package and one of Alan’s shirts that still smelled like him. My body ached in that dull, satisfying way that said I’d done something real. But emotionally? I was stretched thin. Worn in a way that sleep didn’t fix. When I came downstairs, the laptop was already on the table, and our pre-protest maps and signage notes were shoved to one side. Alan glanced up from the kitchen counter, where two mugs steamed like peace offerings. “Call’s starting,” he said, nodding toward the screen. I gave a small smile of thanks and settled into the wooden chair as