Two weeks later, the storm felt almost like a dream.
Denver had reverted to its usual late-winter mood: grayish snow lining streets, patches of stubborn ice on sidewalks, the occasional burst of aggressive sunshine that tricked people into thinking spring was imminent.
Sophie’s apartment looked like a plant had exploded in it.
“I leave you alone for three days and you decide to go feral,” she muttered, misting the drooping pothos that had, against all odds, survived her absence.
The week off Miranda had insisted on had been… strange.
She’d slept, some. Read, in fits and starts. Tried to cook, only to find herself chopping vegetables and thinking about the line of Nathan’s forearm next to hers at Rafe’s island.
Lia had demanded a full debrief over wine and Thai takeout the second she was off shift.
“You kissed him on a mountain?” Lia had said, wide-eyed, pad thai halfway to her mouth. “In the snow? With his tragic backstory and your power cardigan? This is porn.”
“It was one kiss,” Sophie had protested. “Well. Two. Maybe three.”
“Slut,” Lia had said fondly. “I’m so proud.”
“It was stupid,” Sophie had said. “I left the next day. It’s not like there’s a… thing.”
“Woman,” Lia had said. “He gave you a *key to his house*. That is the billionaire equivalent of a promise ring.”
“Or a trap,” Sophie had muttered.
Lia had sobered at that.
“Do you think he’s that?” she’d asked quietly. “A trap.”
Sophie had stared into her glass.
“I think he’s… a lot,” she’d said finally. “And I think I’m… susceptible. Which is not a great combination.”
“Do you *want* anything with him?” Lia had asked. “Beyond storm kisses and trauma bonding?”
Sophie had opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“I don’t know,” she’d admitted. “I don’t know if I want him. Or if I want what he… sees. In me.”
Lia had nodded, unsurprised. “That’s fair,” she’d said. “Just remember: wanting both is allowed. But you don’t have to choose either.”
Now, as Sophie watered her philodendron, those words echoed.
You don’t have to choose either.
Except the universe, and Miranda, seemed determined to make her.
A ping on her laptop drew her from her thoughts.
INCOMING ZOOM: Miranda Shaw.
She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and clicked Accept.
Miranda’s face filled the screen, backlit by the bright, modern kitchen of her condo. She held a mug that said “WORLD’S OKAYEST CEO.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Miranda said without preamble. “I had this before the summit. I’m not being falsely modest.”
“You’re not even modestly modest,” Sophie said. “What’s up? Didn’t we just talk about you not calling me on my week off?”
“This is *good* news,” Miranda said. “The kind that can’t wait.”
Sophie’s stomach did a little flip.
“The Eleanor piece dropped?” she guessed.
“Early,” Miranda said, eyes gleaming. “And it’s… wow.”
She shared her screen.
The online article filled Sophie’s monitor, headline in bold:
> **SNOWED IN WITH A GHOST: INSIDE NATHAN CROSS’S RELUCTANT RETURN TO THE LITERARY WORLD**
A large photo dominated the top—not of Nathan, of course, but of the estate at dusk, glass glowing warm against the snow, storm clouds roiling behind it.
Sophie’s throat tightened.
Miranda scrolled.
Eleanor’s prose was sharp, as always. Wry. Generous and unflinching at once.
> “…Cross has built himself a literal glass fortress on a Colorado mountainside, the kind of house you’d expect to see in a prestige miniseries: all edges and transparency, perched above a drop. > > > The man inside it is less easy to see. > > > I was invited (along with a handful of other industry parasites) to a three-day private summit at Elk Ridge, ostensibly to talk about the future of thriller fiction and the ethics of onscreen bloodshed. What I found was a storm, a near-disaster, and a host who, against his will, revealed more than he intended. > > > Cross is still Cross: sardonic, intense, unwilling to give you more than he thinks you deserve. He hates being looked at. He hates being recorded. He hates being asked to explain his work as if he’d written it by committee. > > > He also, unexpectedly, let the mask slip. > > > In a house that lost power mid-blizzard and rattled under high winds, Cross spoke candidly about fear, trauma, and the cost of using your own scars as raw material. He talked about roofs caving in and hands going cold, about turning senselessness into story as an act of control… and maybe of hope. > > > He was helped, visibly, by an event planner who deserves her own profile…”
Sophie choked.
“Scroll,” she said faintly.
> “…Sophie Turner of Aurora Events (Denver-based, if you have money and masochism to spare) kept fourteen anxious, high-strung industry types calm through a whiteout, a generator scare, and the temperamental moods of a reclusive genius. > > > Turner’s competence became a kind of invisible scaffolding for the summit. She redirected panicking drivers, rerouted sessions, monitored power levels, and poured coffee with the same steady hand. > > > When the house creaked under the weight of snow and even Cross went pale, it was Turner who spoke with the practical humor of someone who has seen worse in banquet halls: “We’re safe. We have food and blankets. If the worst happens, we’ll play charades and pretend it’s experimental theater.” > > > In an industry that often forgets the people behind the scenes, it’s worth noting that this gathering would have imploded without her…”
Sophie covered her mouth.
“Oh my God,” she said behind her fingers.
“That’s a national publication,” Miranda said. “With a circulation that still makes print media weirdly smug. And the audio version of this piece is getting shared like crazy. Our website crashed an hour ago from inquiries.”
Sophie’s head swam.
“She… she used my *name*,” she said. “She didn’t have to use my name.”
“She *asked* to use your name,” Miranda said. “I gave her permission because I am not a monster.”
Emotion surged.
“I’m going to cry,” Sophie said. “I hate you.”
“I’ll take it,” Miranda said.
They read the rest together.
By the end, Sophie felt both exposed and seen in a way she hadn’t expected.
Eleanor had captured Nathan in all his prickly, wounded complexity. She’d hinted at the trauma without exploiting it. She’d painted him as difficult but worth the effort.
And she’d painted Sophie as the quiet, relentless engine making it all possible.
“Well,” Miranda said at last, leaning back. “If there was any doubt about the partnership offer, this blows it out of the water. The phones are going to keep ringing. I need you at the table, Soph. Not just on the floor.”
Sophie’s mind raced.
“It’s… a lot,” she said.
“I know,” Miranda said. “But it’s the right time. For you, for Aurora. We can build something bigger on this. Branch out. Do more summits like that. Curated retreats. High-end consulting. Your name is now part of our brand whether we like it or not.”
Sophie thought of Nathan on the terrace. The key card.
She thought of the way her name had looked in Eleanor’s piece. Flat black on white. A thing other people would read.
“Okay,” she heard herself say. “Let’s talk terms.”
Miranda’s smile was blinding.
“Good,” she said. “Because I already drafted something. I’ll send it to your personal email. Get a lawyer to look it over. And… congratulations, partner.”
The word hit different this time.
Partner.
Not just in exhaustion and invisible labor.
On paper. In reality.
“Thank you,” Sophie whispered.
They signed off.
She sat there, laptop open, Eleanor’s article still glowing.
Her phone buzzed.
NATHAN: You saw it.
She stared.
SOPHIE: You mean the part where she called you a reluctant genius and me an invisible scaffolding? SOPHIE: Hard to miss.
NATHAN: I hate it. NATHAN: And I… weirdly don’t. NATHAN: That’s how you know it’s good.
She smiled.
SOPHIE: She was fair. SOPHIE: To you. To the house. To what happened.
NATHAN: She mentioned you. A lot.
Her stomach fluttered.
SOPHIE: Occupational hazard.
NATHAN: My mother called. NATHAN: She read it. NATHAN: She wants to know “who this Sophie person is” and whether I’m finally “sorting myself out.”
Sophie choked on a laugh.
SOPHIE: She sounds terrifying.
NATHAN: She is. NATHAN: In a smaller, British way. NATHAN: I told her you were a demon sent to torment me. NATHAN: She said, “Good.”
Warmth spread through her chest.
SOPHIE: I like her already.
There was a pause. Three dots blinked.
NATHAN: Come to my thing next week.
She frowned.
SOPHIE: Your… thing?
NATHAN: My publisher is forcing me into a “quiet evening with Nathan Cross” at a bookstore in Denver. NATHAN: Reading. Q&A. Signing. Hell. NATHAN: I told them no. They said I owed them for the summit. NATHAN: Howard says I can’t run. NATHAN: I’ll be very grumpy. NATHAN: You should witness it.
Her pulse jumped.
He was coming *here*.
SOPHIE: That’s in the city?
NATHAN: Yes. Local indie store. Thursday. NATHAN: Come. Bring your terrifying aura. NATHAN: I might need it.
She hesitated.
It was one thing to exist in his world, on his mountain. In his glass box.
It was another to have him in hers.
SOPHIE: I have a client meeting that afternoon. SOPHIE: But I can probably make it. SOPHIE: If only to see you outside your natural habitat.
NATHAN: I’ll wear shoes and everything.
She smiled, imagining him in the cramped aisles of the bookstore she *thought* she knew he meant—she’d hosted a launch party there once. It was all exposed brick and mismatched chairs. No glass. No mountain.
SOPHIE: Text me the details. SOPHIE: And try not to bite anyone before I get there.
NATHAN: No promises. NATHAN: Partner.
The word, from him, made her blink.
SOPHIE: How do you know about that?
NATHAN: Eleanor’s piece. NATHAN: “Turner, partner at Aurora Events.” NATHAN: Unless that was optimistic on her part.
Sophie’s breath caught.
SOPHIE: It just became true.
NATHAN: Good. NATHAN: I prefer my demons properly titled.
She laughed.
She put her phone down.
And for the first time since Elk Ridge, the idea of seeing him didn’t just scare her.
It thrilled her.
***
Thursday came too fast.
The day was a blur of normalcy and not.
She spent the morning on a conference call with a tech startup that wanted an “experiential product launch” involving drones and VR headsets. She spent the afternoon in a negotiation with a hotel over ballroom fees and the right to bring in outside catering.
By six-thirty, she was in her car, fingers tapping the wheel at red lights, stomach a low buzz.
Lia had begged to come.
“I want to see the tragic billionaire in person,” she’d said. “For science.”
“No,” Sophie had said firmly. “He hates crowds. He’d smell your curiosity like blood in the water.”
“You think I’d stress him out?” Lia had asked innocently.
“I think *you* would be fine,” Sophie had said. “It’s me I’m worried about.”
So she went alone.
The bookstore was on a gentrified strip downtown, wedged between a kombucha bar and a boutique that sold handmade candles that smelled like things like “Winter Nostalgia” and “Masculine Pine.”
She found street parking, fed the meter, and climbed out, tucking her scarf tighter.
As she approached, she saw the chalkboard sign on the sidewalk.
> TONIGHT, 7 P.M. > NATHAN CROSS IN CONVERSATION > SOLD OUT
SOLD OUT was underlined three times.
A small knot of people lingered outside, smoking, vibrating.
“Is it true he doesn’t let anyone take his photo?” one woman was saying.
“Probably a vampire,” her friend replied.
Inside, the store was already packed.
Chairs had been crammed into every available space between shelves. People lined the back wall, perched on stools, leaned against bookcases. The air smelled like paper and coffee and too many bodies.
Sophie spotted Howard near the back, standing sentinel, a slim headset in one ear. He inclined his head when he saw her.
“You came,” he said, sounding faintly relieved.
“You said there’d be free wine,” she replied.
He actually smiled. “There is. Terrible, but plentiful.”
She wove through the crowd as unobtrusively as she could. People brushed her shoulders, their chatter a low roar.
At the front, a small platform held two chairs, a tiny table, a microphone on a stand.
He was there.
For a moment, the crowd blurred.
Nathan sat in the left chair, jeans and a gray Henley, dark blazer thrown over like an afterthought. His hair was slightly damp, as if he’d taken a shower fifteen minutes before and not bothered with a dryer. The bookstore’s warm light caught the angles of his face, the rough of his stubble.
He looked… uncomfortable.
Not in a “I’m going to run” way. In a “every piece of his body is aware that eyes are on him and is trying not to flinch” way.
The store’s owner, a woman with purple hair and thick glasses, sat in the other chair, shuffling note cards.
As Sophie found a spot near the back wall, Nathan’s gaze swept the room.
For one long heartbeat, it snagged on her.
Something in his posture changed.
The line of his shoulders eased a fraction. His hand, which had been tapping an uneven rhythm on his knee, stilled.
He was good; no one else would have noticed.
She did.
He looked away quickly, as if not wanting to give anything away.
Her pulse quickened.
The store owner tapped the mic.
“Okay, everyone,” she said. “Thank you for coming. We’re so excited to welcome Nathan Cross, who needs no introduction but gets one anyway…”
Polite laughter.
Sophie leaned back against the bookshelves, letting the words wash over her.
The Q&A was… different than the summit.
More surface, less intimate. The questions were for fans, not peers.
“What’s your writing routine like?” “Where do you get your ideas?” “Are any of your characters based on real people?”
He answered with practiced ease.
“I sit down. I stare at the wall. I eventually give in and open the document. I cut half of what I wrote yesterday. I drink more coffee. Occasionally, I write something that doesn’t make me want to throw the laptop out the window.”
Laughter.
“Everywhere. Nowhere. My nightmares. Your nightmares. The news.”
More laughter, more nervous this time.
“Some,” he admitted. “Mostly they’re composites. Bits of people I’ve known, bits of myself, bits of strangers I’ve watched for too long in airports.”
“How did you feel about having so much of your process exposed in Eleanor Chase’s piece?” the owner asked at one point, eyes glinting.
He grimaced. “Naked,” he said. “Oddly warmer, though.”
“You mean emotionally?” she pressed.
“I mean it’s nice to occasionally be seen as a person and not just a brand,” he said. “Even if that person is a mess.”
The crowd loved him.
He did not love this.
When the Q&A ended and the signing began, the bookstore became a kind of controlled chaos.
People formed a line that snaked between shelves, clutching books.
Nathan took his place behind a small table, stack of Sharpies at his elbow.
Sophie stayed back, near a display of cookbooks, watching.
He signed quickly, his handwriting surprisingly neat in this context, too. Names, short notes, the occasional dry joke.
To Kendra—Don’t trust anyone. To Sam—If you hated the ending, blame my editor. To Maria—Thanks for letting me live in your brain for a bit.
He deflected personal questions with humor, shut down invasive ones with a raised eyebrow.
“No, I will not tell you where I live,” he said to one overeager woman. “That would defeat the purpose of being reclusive.”
When someone tried to sneak a selfie, Howard materialized like a gray-sweatered wraith.
“Mr. Cross doesn’t do photos,” he said gently but firmly, inserting himself between the fan and the phone. “We’re happy to sign anything printed, though.”
Sophie felt a weird surge of protectiveness watching it.
He was doing something that clearly scraped at his nerves. He was performing a version of himself he didn’t particularly like.
And yet, when a teenage girl stepped up, book clutched so tight her knuckles were white, and stammered, “Your books got me through chemo,” he stilled.
The room faded.
He listened to her in that fierce, total way she’d seen in the study.
“Thank you,” he said when she finished, voice rough. “That’s… I don’t know what to say that isn’t a cliché. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad the stories helped, even a little.”
He wrote something longer in her book.
The girl blinked fast as she walked away, lip trembling.
Sophie’s heart turned over.
She didn’t notice Howard sidle up until he spoke near her ear.
“He’s going to be wrecked after this,” Howard said quietly.
“I can see that,” she said. “His battery icon’s in the red.”
“Meet us at the bar next door in twenty minutes,” Howard murmured. “Side entrance. Less crowd. I’ll pry the Sharpie from his hand and steer him out.”
She nodded.
“Got it.”
She slipped out before the signing ended, ducking around a display of candles that smelled like “Old Bookshop” and “Snowfall.”
The bar next door was dark wood, low light, industrial chic. Half-full, mostly people in flannels and beanies.
She found a small table in the back, facing the door.
Her hands wouldn’t quite stop fidgeting.
It felt almost like a date.
It was not a date.
He was her client.
Her new firm partner’s star client.
The man who’d given her a key to his bunker and kissed her on a mountain.
Her stomach twisted.
The door opened.
Howard came in first, scanned, saw her, nodded.
Nathan followed.
He looked… stripped.
Not of clothing—he was still in the Henley and blazer—but of some invisible exoskeleton.
His shoulders drooped. His hair was a hand’s breath away from wild. His eyes—when they found her—were dark and tired and unbearably real.
Howard guided him to the table like a parent steering a too-tall teenager.
“I’m going to get the first round,” Howard said. “Before he starts drinking neat whiskey on an empty stomach. You—” he nodded at Sophie “—keep him from bolting.”
Then he vanished toward the bar.
Nathan dropped into the chair opposite her.
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
“You came,” he said.
“You asked,” she said.
“Clients ask for things all the time,” he said. “You tell most of them no.”
“You’re special,” she said dryly.
He huffed.
“How bad was it?” she asked.
“On a scale from ‘mild discomfort’ to ‘please remove my skin’?” he said. “About a seven.”
“Not bad,” she said.
“High praise,” he muttered.
She smiled.
“You were good,” she said. “Charming, even.”
“Lies,” he said.
“The teenage girl looked like she’d float out of there,” she said. “You treated her like a human, not a demographic. That matters.”
He shifted, uncomfortable.
“I’m going to be hungover tomorrow,” he said.
“You haven’t even had a drink yet,” she pointed out.
“Emotional hangover,” he said. “The worst kind.”
She nodded, understanding.
Howard returned with three drinks: a whiskey neat for Nathan, a red wine for her, a club soda with lime for himself.
“I’m going to pretend this is water and not judgment,” Nathan said, eyeing Howard’s glass.
“I have to get you back to the car in one piece,” Howard said. “Judgment comes later.”
They fell into an easy triangle, conversation swirling around the event.
“You were less of an arse than I expected,” Howard said mildly.
“That’s because Sophie was in the room,” Nathan said. “I felt watched.”
“You were watched,” Howard pointed out. “By a hundred people.”
“She’s different,” he said.
The words landed.
Howard’s gaze flicked, quick and assessing, between them.
“I’m going to take this call,” he lied, standing and stepping away, phone to his ear.
Subtle, he was not.
Left alone at the table, they were suddenly in a bubble again.
Different bubble. Different glass.
Same pressure.
“So,” she said.
“So,” he echoed.
“You’re officially out in the world again,” she said. “Eleanor’s piece. This thing. People talking about you like you’re not a ghost.”
“I feel very corporeal,” he said. “And very ready to disappear again for a decade.”
“You won’t,” she said.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Because you text me more than any client I’ve ever had,” she said.
He looked almost offended. “I text you… sparingly,” he said.
“You text me at two a.m.,” she said. “With things like ‘Do you think I can cut this entire subplot?’ and ‘Is it normal to hate my own name?’”
“That was one time,” he muttered.
“It was three,” she said.
He glared.
She laughed.
“But seriously,” she said. “You’re… doing it. The thing you were afraid to do.”
“Leaving the house?” he said.
“Being seen,” she said.
He looked down at his glass.
“I hate it,” he said. “And I… like parts of it.”
“What parts?” she asked.
“Not the noise,” he said. “Not the… speculation. But when someone says, ‘this helped,’ or ‘I felt less alone,’ it’s… hard to argue that staying in my box is a better option.”
“That’s because it’s not,” she said.
He sighed.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” he said.
“I’m tired,” she said. “My filter’s permanently broken.”
He studied her.
“You look different,” he said.
She stiffened. “Different how?”
“Looser,” he said. “In your face. Your shoulders. Like someone took a backpack off you.”
She blinked.
She’d been so wrapped up in Eleanor’s article, the partnership, seeing him, she hadn’t stopped to notice herself.
“Miranda offered me equity,” she said slowly. “I said yes.”
His eyes lit. “Good.”
“It’s… a lot,” she said. “Responsibility. Risk. But it feels… right.”
“It *is* right,” he said firmly. “You’ve been carrying that place. Now it’ll be official.”
“It also means I can’t just… run,” she said. “Even if I want to.”
“You can,” he countered. “People abandon companies all the time. I’ve read about it in the *Financial Times*.”
She snorted.
“I mean it,” he said. “You’re not a hostage. To work. To me. To anything.”
Her gaze flicked to his mouth, unbidden.
“I know,” she said. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy to believe.”
He tilted his head, considering.
“Do you want to run?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Away from weddings. Away from clients demanding their logo be *two pixels bigger* on the step-and-repeat. Away from… my parents asking when I’m going to settle down. Away from…” She trailed off.
“From what?” he prompted.
She met his eyes.
“Away from how much I… feel,” she said quietly. “About… everything. About you.”
Silence.
He swallowed.
“I don’t deserve that,” he said.
“It’s not about deserving,” she said. “It’s about… reality.”
“Reality is overrated,” he muttered.
“Tell that to the teenage girl with your book,” she said.
His jaw clenched.
He drank.
“I keep thinking about the storm,” he said suddenly. “The blackout. The way the house sounded. The way you… walked into the study like you *belonged* there.”
“I did,” she said. “For three days. Professionally.”
“And… now?” he asked.
Her hand brushed the edge of her pocket where, even now, the key card sat.
“Now I belong in Denver,” she said. “Partner. Planner. Pothos abuser.”
He smiled faintly.
“You really carry that thing around?” he asked.
She stared. “What thing?”
“The key,” he said. “I can see the outline in your pocket when you sit down.”
Heat flooded her face.
“You’re staring at my pockets?” she demanded.
“I’m staring at you,” he said. “It’s hard to avoid your pockets when they’re attached.”
“Gross,” she muttered.
He huffed.
“Why haven’t you thrown it away?” he asked.
She toyed with her wine glass stem.
“Why haven’t you revoked it?” she countered.
His gaze sharpened. “I won’t,” he said.
“Maybe that’s why,” she said quietly.
He looked at her for a long beat.
“Dangerous,” he murmured.
“Potentially,” she said.
Howard returned then, mercifully breaking the tension.
“I’ve called the car,” he said. “If we don’t leave soon, people are going to start loitering outside for autographs and we’ll never get him out.”
Nathan scowled. “Humans,” he said. “Why did we invite them?”
“Book sales,” Howard said. “Income. Taxes.”
“Details,” Nathan grumbled.
He drained the rest of his whiskey and stood.
For a second, he swayed.
Sophie’s hand shot out, steadying his arm.
His bicep flexed under her fingers.
Deja vu hit—kitchen, storm, knife, his skin under her hand.
“You okay?” she asked, softer.
“Just stood too fast,” he said. “I’ll live.”
“Don’t make me call an ambulance,” she said. “Lia will interrogate you about your sex life.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Threat,” she said. “For both of you.”
He chuckled.
Howard moved toward the door, scanning.
Nathan looked down at her.
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
“I’m glad you didn’t run,” she replied.
“If I had, you would have texted me creative insults for a week,” he said.
“True,” she said.
He hesitated.
“Walk me out?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Again with the bossiness.”
“Yes,” he said.
She grabbed her coat and followed him to the side exit, past the bar’s ice machine and racks of glasses.
The alley was cold, lit by a flickering security light.
Snowmelt dripped from gutters.
A black car idled at the curb.
Howard melted ahead, giving them a bubble without making it obvious.
“You’re going back up tonight?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I thought about staying in the city. Hotel, room service, anonymity. But… I think I need my glass box.”
“Easier to write there?” she asked.
“Easier to hear myself think,” he said. “Even if I don’t always like what I hear.”
She thought of him at the window.
“You’ve started again,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
He nodded. “It’s shit. But it’s… moving.”
“Progress,” she said.
“I wrote you in,” he said abruptly.
Her breath caught.
“You… what?” she said faintly.
“Not you,” he amended quickly. “A… you-adjacent person. An event planner who hates people and saves everyone anyway.”
“Sounds familiar,” she said weakly.
“She swears more,” he said. “And carries a knife.”
“I could carry a knife,” she said.
“Please don’t,” he said. “I already fear you enough.”
Her heart slammed.
“Is that… okay?” he asked, words suddenly awkward. “That I used bits of you. I can change it. I can—”
“It’s okay,” she said, surprising herself. “We… steal from what we know. That’s the job.”
He blew out a breath. “My therapist said the same thing,” he said. “‘Just don’t confuse the character with the person.’”
“Good therapist,” she said.
“He’d be unbearable if he knew you agreed with him,” Nathan muttered.
They reached the car.
He opened the rear door. Paused.
Turned back to her.
The city noise was muffled here, in the alley. A couple arguing half a block away. A siren in the distance. The drip-drip of melting snow.
“Should we…” he began.
“Don’t,” she said quickly.
His mouth snapped shut.
“I can’t do another… mountain step,” she said. “Alley kiss. Whatever. Not when I have to go home and answer partnership emails and pretend I don’t still smell your stupid cologne.”
He swallowed.
“Stupid?” he said.
“Infuriating,” she corrected.
He nodded slowly.
“Right,” he said. “Boundaries.”
“Awful things,” she said. “Necessary.”
He looked at her like he wanted to tear the word out of the air.
“Will you…” he asked, softer. “Text me. Sometimes. Even when it’s not about generators and panel flow.”
“Yes,” she said. No hesitation.
“Okay,” he said.
Silence.
He stepped back, into the shadow of the open car door.
“Goodnight, Sophie,” he said.
“Goodnight, Nathan,” she replied.
He got in.
Howard offered her a tiny, sympathetic smile from the other side of the car before sliding in as well.
The door shut.
The car pulled away.
Sophie stood there in the cold, breath white, watching taillights disappear into the city.
Her phone buzzed.
NATHAN: I already regret not kissing you. NATHAN: That’s progress, right?
Her heart clenched.
She typed, fingers shaking.
SOPHIE: Yes. SOPHIE: That’s progress.
She tucked the phone into her pocket, fingers brushing the edge of the key card.
She walked back toward the warmth of the bar, the smell of beer and fried things, the normal noise of ordinary lives.
Her life was not ordinary anymore.
Maybe it never had been.
But for the first time, she felt like she was authoring it.
Not just reacting.
Even if the plot involved one very dangerous, very human man in a glass house on a mountain.
---