The escalators at High Street-Brooklyn Heights had always felt a little like a ride.
They were too long and too steep, narrow metal steps sinking down into a tunnel of pale blue tiles and flickering fluorescent lights. As a kid, Olivia had gripped the rubber handrail with both hands, trying not to look down. As a teenager, she’d treated them like a test of courage—no holding on, no looking up, just walking calmly into the belly of the subway beast.
Tonight, she stood at the top, hand on the cool railing, watching people disappear into the moving gullet of the city and reappear at the bottom as smaller, blurrier versions of themselves.
It was 6:57 p.m.
Her phone, cold in her palm, showed no new texts.
She checked one more time anyway.
Nope.
“You look like you’re about to jump,” someone said behind her.
She turned.
Jake stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his dark pea coat, a scarf looped once around his neck. His hair was mussed by the wind, cheeks pink from the cold.
Her heart did the annoying little leap it had started doing around him again.
“I was considering it,” she said. “Death by MTA escalator. Very on-brand.”
He smiled slightly, moving closer.
“Grace period over, huh,” he said. “You sure you want to spend your first moments of freedom in a subway station?”
“Symbolism,” she said. “Also: easier to disappear if this goes horribly wrong.”
“I know all the blind corners down there,” he said. “You’re safe with me.”
Heat flickered low in her belly at the way he said *with me*.
“Big talk, Mr. ‘I nearly broke my neck on ice,’” she said. “Come on.”
She stepped onto the escalator.
He joined her, just behind and to the side. Close enough that she could feel the faint heat of him through their coats.
They descended.
“What is it with you and transit infrastructure dates?” he asked. “First Manny’s, then the rink, now this. Should I be expecting a romantic evening at the bus depot next?”
“Don’t tempt me,” she said. “I have contacts at the depot.”
He laughed, the sound echoing faintly off the tunnel walls.
At the bottom, instead of following the crowd toward the turnstiles, she veered left, down a narrower corridor.
Old signage pointed toward a barely used exit, the tiles more cracked here, the lighting dimmer.
“You’re sure you’re not luring me into a murder tunnel?” he asked.
“If I was going to murder you,” she said, “I’d do it near a brightly lit coffee shop so I could write down your dying testimony.”
“That’s comforting,” he said. “In a very specific way.”
“Relax,” she said. “We’re almost there.”
The corridor opened into a small landing with a concrete bench and an old mosaic of a ship on the wall. Above, through a set of metal grates, the underside of the Brooklyn Bridge loomed, crisscrossed with beams and the faint rhythm of cars above.
When she’d first found this spot in college—lost, looking for a rumored shortcut to the promenade—she’d thought it felt like a pocket outside of time. Close enough to hear the city’s pulse. Removed enough to be… quiet.
“It’s not exactly candlelight,” she said, gesturing. “But the rent’s good.”
He looked around, eyes adjusting to the dim.
“This is…” he started. “Really cool, actually.”
“I used to come here between classes,” she said. “When I needed to… think. It’s like standing inside the city’s bones. But no one ever comes down this far unless they’re lost.”
He sat on the bench, gloved hands resting loosely on his thighs.
“So,” he said. “You brought me to your secret lair.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said, sitting beside him. “I bring all the boys I’m ethically compromised about down here.”
He huffed out a laugh.
“Good to know,” he said. “I’ll leave a note in the guest book.”
For a moment, they just sat, shoulders a few inches apart, listening to the faint rumble of the trains deeper in and the cars overhead.
She inhaled.
“So,” she said. “Grace period.”
His jaw tightened.
“You keeping score?” he asked lightly.
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe I needed… a boundary. So I didn’t do something stupid while the city was still deciding whether it trusted either of us.”
“And now?” he asked.
“And now,” she said slowly, “the bill’s passed. The oversight board is meeting. Ben is doing his best impression of a serious journalist on your beat.”
He snorted.
“And me?” he asked, softer.
She looked at him.
His face, lit unevenly by the yellowish light, looked older than it had in those old campus photos. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the beginnings of something permanent etched into his forehead from years of frowning at screens.
But the way he watched her—intense, careful, like he was trying not to miss anything—that was the same.
“And you,” she said, “are still here. Somehow.”
His throat worked.
“That sounds like… a problem,” he said.
“It’s… complicated,” she said.
“You keep saying that,” he said. “I’m starting to think it’s your brand.”
“Better than yours,” she said. “Stubborn visionary with martyr complex.”
He huffed.
“Fair,” he said.
Silence stretched between them.
Not empty. Charged.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said finally.
“Dangerous,” he murmured.
She shot him a look.
“About us,” she clarified. “And about… me.”
He went still.
“I spent a long time telling myself that what happened at twenty-two was… your fault,” she said. “You chose code over me. You missed things that mattered. You said things you shouldn’t have.”
“I did,” he said quietly.
“But,” she continued, “I also chose… not to fight. Not to stick around and try to build something different. I saw you going a direction that scared me, and instead of saying, ‘Come this way with me,’ I just… walked the other way.”
“You told me what you needed,” he said. “Sleep. Showing up. Less… obsession. I didn’t listen. That’s on me.”
“I told you,” she said. “Then I gave you one chance to fix it. And when you didn’t, I left. I didn’t negotiate. I didn’t… compromise.”
Her voice scraped a little on the word.
He stared at her.
“You think that was wrong?” he asked.
“I think…” She exhaled. “I did what I needed to do at twenty-two to not lose myself. But I also… maybe… built this idea of you in my head after that. This… single-minded asshole who would never, ever make room for anyone else. It made it easier to be angry. To… not miss you.”
His jaw tightened.
“And now?” he asked.
“And now,” she said, “you’re doing things I didn’t expect. Saying no to easy power. Letting other people look at your code. Agreeing to laws that make your job harder. Texting my mother to ask if I’m eating.”
He winced. “She won’t stop sending me soup recipes,” he muttered.
“You earned that,” she said.
He smiled briefly. Sobering again, he asked, “So the story in your head… changed.”
“Yeah,” she said. “And that’s… scary.”
“How so?” he asked.
“Because if you’re not the villain anymore,” she said, “then maybe I’m not… the righteous heroine. Maybe we were just… two stupid kids trying to build impossible things with no tools and no sleep.”
He watched her.
“There’s a third option,” he said.
“Oh?” she said. “Enlighten me, oh wise one.”
“Maybe,” he said slowly, “we were two stupid kids who hurt each other. And now we’re two slightly less stupid adults who… get a shot at doing it differently. If we want to.”
Her chest squeezed.
“You always did like a sequel,” she said.
He smiled. Small. Not cocky.
“Only if the second one’s better than the first,” he said.
She looked down at her gloved hands.
“I don’t… know how to do this,” she admitted. “To… want you. And want my work. And not feel like I’m… betraying one with the other.”
He turned on the bench to face her more fully.
“Can I say something selfish?” he asked.
“You usually do,” she murmured.
He took a soft breath.
“I don’t… want to be the thing that makes you compromise your work,” he said. “I never did. Even back then. I just… didn’t know how to… not let the work eat everything.”
“I know,” she said.
“I also,” he added, “really fucking want you.”
Her breath stuttered.
Heat shot through her, fast and hot.
He went on, voice low and steady.
“I want to argue with you,” he said. “And read everything you write, even when it pisses me off. I want to fall asleep with you stealing my blankets. I want to watch you win awards and then get drunk and make fun of your acceptance speech.”
A laugh, more breath than sound, escaped her.
“Presumptuous,” she said.
“Optimistic,” he said.
He shifted closer.
“I want,” he said, “to try again. With all the things we didn’t have back then. Boundaries. Therapy. Money that isn’t counted in quarters. Phones that don’t die after two texts.”
Her eyes stung.
“And if it… blows up?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “If we fuck it up again?”
“Then we… fuck it up,” he said. “And we live. Because now we know each of us can do that. Separately.”
She closed her eyes, swallowed.
“You always did have a reckless streak,” she said.
“You fell for me, remember,” he said softly. “What does that say about you?”
She opened her eyes.
Their faces were inches apart.
She could feel his breath, warm and ghosting over her lower lip.
The sounds of the city receded.
She lifted a hand, hesitated, then cupped his cheek.
His stubble rasped softly against her palm.
“Jake,” she said.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
“Shut up,” she said.
Then she leaned in.
His mouth met hers like it had been waiting.
Not cautious this time. Not a test.
This was… heat.
His hand slid up to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair. He angled her head, deepening the kiss.
She let him.
She opened.
It wasn’t like the kisses at nineteen—hungry and half-formed, all hands and not enough space. There was urgency, yes, but there was… control. A give and take. A rhythm.
His tongue brushed hers, slow.
Her whole body lit up.
She made a small, involuntary sound in the back of her throat.
He groaned, low, hand tightening briefly in her hair.
She broke away, breath coming unevenly.
He rested his forehead against hers.
“Okay,” he said, voice rough. “So… data confirms.”
“Shut up,” she said again, but there was no heat in it.
Her hand slid down, fingers curling in the lapel of his coat.
They sat like that for a moment. Breathing each other in. Hearts pounding.
“Liv,” he said.
She hummed.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
She swallowed.
“Stop,” she whispered.
His hand stilled.
He pulled back an inch. Two.
“Okay,” he said hoarsely. “Okay.”
“What the—” She stared at him, incredulous. “I didn’t mean *stop stop.* I meant stop *talking.*”
He blinked.
Then laughed.
A stunned, disbelieving sound.
“You can’t… do that to me,” he said. “You said the actual word.”
She glared at him.
“I’ve been waiting ten years to tell you to shut up in a different context,” she said. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
His eyes darkened.
“Context noted,” he said.
He kissed her again.
Harder.
This time, her hands slid up under his coat, fisting in the soft wool of his sweater.
He made a small, desperate sound into her mouth.
Heat pooled low in her belly, spreading out, making her limbs feel both heavy and too light.
She shifted closer, one knee bumping his thigh.
He caught her waist, steadying her, thumb pressing into the small of her back.
The contact sent a shock up her spine.
She pulled back just enough to breathe, their noses brushing.
“How far do you want to take ‘no Manny’s’?” he asked, voice ragged. “Because I’m dangerously close to making out with you in front of a mosaic.”
She laughed, breathless.
“We have… options,” she said. “We’re adults. With… apartments and… door locks.”
His pupils blew wider.
“I like how you think,” he said.
“Of course you do,” she said, trying for flippant and landing somewhere near shaking. “You trained me to be this way.”
He kissed the corner of her mouth, soft.
“Come home with me,” he said quietly.
Her heart slammed.
“Define ‘home,’” she said. “Your… glass box? Or… Queens? Because if you’re about to invite me to your mother’s—”
“My place,” he cut in. “Tonight. For… food. And… whatever else you want.”
She swallowed hard.
Images flashed—his kitchen island, the view of the river, his couch, his bed.
Her body screamed *yes.*
Her brain, annoyingly, raised a hand.
Ethics. Perception. The fact that she’d just promised Sam she wouldn’t hand anyone more ammunition.
The fact that if she slept with him tonight, there was no pretending this was some hazy maybe.
This would be… a thing.
She pulled in a slow breath.
“Not tonight,” she said.
His face shuttered for a second.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Yeah. Of course. I don’t—”
She squeezed his arm.
“Not because I don’t want to,” she added quickly. “Because if I walk into your elevator tonight, I’m not walking out until… Monday. And I have a piece due tomorrow. And a life I have to… show up for.”
He exhaled, shoulders loosening.
“Good,” he said.
“Good?” she echoed.
He smiled, wry.
“Because if you’d said yes,” he said, “I’d have pretended to be a gentleman and then probably begged you to stay anyway. This way, we both get to… not test my self-control in an elevator.”
Heat crawled up her neck.
“I’m not making this easy for you, am I?” she said.
“You’re not making it easy for *either* of us,” he said. “Which… is probably healthy.”
She smirked.
“So this is… what,” she said. “The part where we… date?”
He laughed softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think this is the part where we… date.”
Her stomach fluttered, equal parts terror and thrill.
“You’re going to be insufferable,” she said.
“Probably,” he said. “But I’ll show up. I promise.”
Her chest tightened at the quiet weight of that.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said softly.
“I’m not twenty-two,” he said. “I know what those words mean now.”
She nodded, throat thick.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay,” he echoed.
They sat there a moment longer, shoulders touching, listening to the city move around them.
Then they stood.
At the base of the escalator, they parted.
“I’ll walk you to the turnstile,” he said.
“You’re not coming with me?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“I have a meeting with Samir,” he said. “He’s going to yell at me about resource allocation for the open API team.”
“Sexy,” she said.
“Maybe next time we can think about resource allocation together,” he murmured.
She swatted his arm.
He caught her hand, briefly, squeezed.
“Text me when you get home,” he said.
“I’m not a teenager,” she said automatically.
“Humor me,” he said. “I like knowing you’re… somewhere warm. With a functioning radiator.”
Her lips curved.
“Fine,” she said. “But only because my radiator listens to you more than it listens to me.”
He grinned.
“Occupational hazard,” he said.
She swiped her MetroCard, stepped through, and turned back.
He stood on the other side of the metal bars, hands in his pockets, watching her.
She gave him a two-finger salute, tried to play it off like her heart wasn’t pounding.
He lifted his hand in a small wave.
Then the crowd swallowed her.
On the train, pressed between a woman with a stroller and a guy in a puffer jacket blasting tinny reggaeton, she pulled out her phone.
> Home, she typed when she reached her apartment. > Radiator grudgingly warm. > No escalator mishaps.
> Good, he wrote back. > No Mosaic Makeouts headline in your future.
> Sleep, Liv. > Tomorrow we get to wake up in a city that has a kill switch. > That’s… something.
She smiled at the ceiling.
> It is, she wrote. > Good night, Jake.
> Night, he replied.
She put the phone down.
For the first time in a long time, the crack in her ceiling didn’t look like a fault line.
It looked like a map.
Heading somewhere new.
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