Chapter 1: Midnight Intrusion & Unspoken Hunger
The fire escape groaned under her boots, a metallic complaint she felt in her teeth. Nova tilted her head back, the pink tips of her hair brushing her shoulders, and grinned at the slice of city sky between buildings. Two a.m. air, thick with summer and distant traffic, filled her lungs. The third-floor window was dark, but she knew he was in there.
She rapped her knuckles against the glass. Nothing.
Pressing her palm flat, she felt the cool vibration of the pane. She waited, her other hand clutching the neck of a half-empty bottle of red. From the apartment below, the bass of someone’s music thumped lazily.
A shadow moved inside. The window slid open with a violent jerk, and Garrett filled the space, shirtless, his body a stark silhouette against the deeper dark of the room. The streetlight caught the hard line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.
“What,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Let me in, Rhodes. I brought wine.” She waved the bottle.
“It’s two in the fucking morning, Nova.”
“I’m aware. My clock works too. Your fire escape is digging into my knees.” She shuffled forward for emphasis, the metal grid leaving imprints on her skin.
He stared another five seconds, his eyes—pale, even in this light—scanning her face. With a curt exhale, he stepped back. She clambered through the window, her boots landing with a solid thud on the wooden floor of his apartment above the shop. The familiar scents hit her: disinfectant, ink, and underneath, the clean, sharp smell that was just him.
He didn’t move to turn on a light. The ambient glow from the street painted the room in shades of gray and deep blue. She could see the outlines of his sparse furniture, the neat, almost obsessive order of it. A stark contrast to her chaotic nest downstairs.
“You were dreaming again,” she said, setting the bottle on his small kitchen counter. She turned to look at him.
He was still by the window, a statue of restrained energy. Sweat sheened his chest. And there, across his pectoral, curling over his heart, was the new work. The prison ink, raw and jagged, a series of uneven lines and shadows still raised and pink at the edges. It was healing, but poorly.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low.
She ignored him. Closing the distance, she reached out before he could step away. Her fingertips, cool from the night air, hovered just above his skin. “Does it hurt?”
He flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible reaction. “No.”
“Liar.” Her touch finally made contact, feather-light, tracing the inflamed edge of the design. His skin was hot. She felt the frantic beat of his heart under her palm. “Who did this to you?”
“Some guy with a guitar string and a melted radio.” His tone was flat, a recitation of fact. “It’s done. Leave it.”
But she couldn’t. Her artist’s eye saw the brutal technique, the story of haste and pain. Her other eye, the one that knew him, saw a punishment. She let her hand rest fully against him, a steady pressure. His breath hitched.
“Why are you here, Nova?” He caught her wrist, but didn’t push it away. His grip was a cage, all heat and callouses.
“You weren’t downstairs today. Missed Mrs. Henderson’s appointment. She wanted a sparrow, got a seagull from Levi instead. She’s suing, probably.”
A faint, almost-smile touched his mouth. “Bullshit.”
“Okay, she’s not suing. But she was disappointed. She likes your lines.” Nova’s thumb moved, a slow stroke over his knuckles where he held her. “I was worried.”
“Don’t be.”
“Too late.” She tilted her chin up. His face was all shadows and angles, the blue of his eyes nearly colorless. “You’re stuck with me worrying. Part of the job description for friends who disappear for five years and then come back all…” She gestured at him with her free hand. “Like this.”
“Brooding?” The word was sardonic.
“I was going to say ‘closed-off and infuriating.’ But brooding works.” She tugged her wrist gently. He released it, his hand falling to his side like a weight.
She turned back to the counter, popped the cork on the wine with her teeth, and took a long swig straight from the bottle. She held it out to him. He looked at it, then at her mouth, then took it. His throat worked as he drank.
“It’s cheap,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“The best kind.” She hopped up to sit on the counter, swinging her legs. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was full of every unsaid thing from the past five years, from the before, when they were just kids dreaming over sketchpads in this very shop. “Talk to me, Garrett. Or don’t talk. Just… be in the room with me. Without looking like you’re waiting for a fight.”
He leaned against the wall opposite her, crossing his arms over his chest, a defensive gesture that made the new ink stretch and contort. “I am waiting for a fight. It’s what comes next.”
“Not here.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Her voice softened. “This is my place. Our place. It’s safe.”
He laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Nothing’s safe. You, of all people, should know that by now.”
The words hung there. She studied him—the tension in his neck, the way his eyes kept flicking to the window, to the door, cataloging exits. A man still living in a cage, even with the door open.
“Show me the rest,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“The tattoo. I can only see part of it from here. Let me see what they put on you.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. For a long moment, she thought he’d refuse, shut down, maybe even ask her to leave. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he unfolded his arms and took a single step forward into a slat of streetlight.
The full piece was revealed. It was a monstrous, beautiful thing in its own terrible way. A snarling wolf, done in stark black and gray, but the lines were shaky, the shading inconsistent. It was a badge of survival, but also a brand. A claim made by someone else on skin that was hers, in a way she’d never dared to say out loud.
She slid off the counter. The wood floor was cool under her bare feet. She stopped inches from him, her eyes tracing every line. Her hand rose again, this time with more purpose, and she placed it directly over the wolf’s head, over the fierce, pained snarl, over the frantic pounding of his heart.
“I can fix it,” she whispered.
He shook his head, a barely-there movement. “Don’t.”
“I can make it beautiful. Make it yours. Not theirs.”
“Nova.” Her name was a warning, a plea.
“Let me in,” she said, echoing her words from the fire escape. This time she wasn’t talking about the apartment.
His hand closed over hers, pressing it harder against his chest as if to imprint the pain. “You’re drunk, Nova.” His voice was gravel, worn smooth by too many silent nights. “You can sleep it off in my bed. I’ll take the couch.” He pulled her hand away, turning to lead her to the small bedroom, a retreat that felt like a defeat for them both. She followed, the wine-buzz suddenly feeling hollow, because the distance he put between them was wider than any fire escape.