Chapter 13: Velvet and Navy
The suit fit him like it had been cut in another lifetime—navy wool, sharp shoulders, a collar that framed the blade of his jaw. He'd tied the tie himself. No mirror, no fuss. Just muscle memory from years of funerals and court dates and meetings where the wrong word could cost more than money.
He checked the time. Six forty-eight. Then he checked it again because he was that kind of stupid tonight.
The box in his pocket was small enough to disappear in his palm. Velvet. Black. The kind of thing that could hold a ring, but didn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He didn't know what he was doing—only that the weight of it against his thigh felt like something important.
He parked outside her building at six fifty-nine.
By the time he hit the buzzer, his hands weren't shaking. He made sure of it.
She answered on the second press. "Yeah?"
"It's me."
The door clicked open. He took the stairs two at a time. Didn't need the elevator. Needed the movement.
She was standing in the doorway when he reached her floor.
Cream velvet. The dress poured over her like melted candle wax, clinging to her hips, her waist, the soft swell of her breasts. A slit ran up one thigh, showing a flash of leg every time she shifted her weight. Her hair was down. Her lips were red. Her eyes were doing that thing they did—the thing where they looked at him like she already knew every thought in his head and was waiting to see which one he'd say out loud.
He forgot how to breathe.
"That bad?" she asked.
He shook his head. Slowly. "You're gonna ruin me."
She smiled. Stepped back. "Come in while I grab my bag."
He stepped inside. The apartment smelled like vanilla and something citrusy—her perfume. The sunflowers he'd brought a week ago were still in the vase. Wilting. He made a mental note to bring new ones.
She grabbed a small clutch from the counter. Turned to face him.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
"You're not gonna tell me?"
"No."
She raised an eyebrow. "I hate surprises."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I want to see your face when you walk in."
She stared at him. Something shifted behind her eyes. Something soft.
"Okay," she said.
He held out his hand.
She took it.
---
The restaurant was called Meridian. It sat on the thirty-second floor of a building downtown that looked like glass and money and everything Zay usually avoided. Valet took his car. A hostess in a black sheath led them to a corner table with a view of the city sprawled out like a circuit board.
Nova looked around. Took it in. "This place is fancy as hell."
"Yeah."
"You hate places like this."
"Yeah."
"So why are we here?"
He pulled out her chair. Waited until she sat. Then took his own seat across from her.
"Because you deserve it."
She didn't respond. Just looked at him. Then at the menu.
"I don't know what half this shit is."
"Me neither. Order the duck."
"You've had the duck?"
"No. But it's expensive."
She laughed. Real. Bright. The sound of it made something loosen in his chest.
The waiter came. They ordered. Duck for her. Steak for him. Champagne that cost more than his first car.
The food came. They ate. Talked about nothing—her class, his store, the way the city looked different from up here. He watched her. The way she held her fork. The way she laughed with her whole body. The way she looked at him like he was more than the sum of his worst parts.
Dessert arrived. Chocolate mousse. Two spoons.
She was mid-sentence—something about a bass line she couldn't get right—when he reached into his pocket.
The box felt heavier than it should.
He set it on the table between them.
She stopped talking. Looked at it. Then at him.
"What is that?"
"Open it."
She reached for it. Her fingers brushed velvet. She lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled on black silk, was a key. Silver. Simple. A single groove cut into the blade.
She looked up. Confused.
"A key?"
"A key to my place. My store. My life." He paused. "Whatever you want it to be."
Her breath caught.
"I'm not good at this," he said. "You know that. I don't do this. I don't do relationships. I don't do things that make me feel like I'm standing on the edge of something I can't control."
She didn't speak.
"But I want you. Not for a night. Not for a season. For real. For as long as you'll let me."
Her eyes were glassy. Wet at the corners.
"Zay—"
"I'm asking you to be my girlfriend." The word felt foreign in his mouth. Almost silly. But he meant it. "I'm asking you to be mine. Exclusive. Official. All of it."
She closed the box. Held it in her palm.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious."
She looked at the key. Then at him. Then at the city outside the window.
"Yes."
"What?"
"Yes." She smiled. Bigger than he'd ever seen. "Yes, I'll be your girlfriend."
He exhaled. Didn't realize he'd been holding his breath.
She reached across the table. Took his hand.
"I don't know how to do this either," she said. "But I want to try."
He squeezed her fingers.
"That's all I'm asking."
---
They didn't stay for coffee.
The drive back to his building was quiet. Not awkward. Just charged. His hand on her thigh. Her fingers tracing patterns on his knuckles.
He parked in the underground garage. Led her to the private elevator. Punched in the code.
The doors closed.
He kissed her.
Not soft. Not gentle. Hungry. His hands cupped her face. Her hands fisted in his jacket. The elevator hummed upward. Neither of them cared.
The doors opened.
His penthouse was dark. City lights poured through floor-to-ceiling windows. Black leather. Polished chrome. Vinyl racks along one wall. A turntable spinning silently in the corner.
She stepped inside. Turned in a slow circle.
"This is yours?"
"Yeah."
"It's... a lot."
"I know."
She walked to the window. Looked out at the city. The neon glow of his record store sign flickered twelve floors down.
"I can see Groove Theory from here."
"Yeah."
She turned. Looked at him. The city behind her like a halo.
"Come here."
He crossed the room. Slow. Deliberate. Stopped when his chest brushed hers.
"I want to take my time with you," he said.
"Then take it."
He reached for her zipper. Found it at the back of her neck. Pulled it down. Slow. Teeth by tooth.
The dress loosened. Fell from her shoulders. Pooled at her feet.
She stood in front of him. Black lace bra. Matching panties. Scars and curves and skin.
He exhaled. "Fuck."
She reached for his tie. Pulled it loose. Unbuttoned his shirt. One button at a time. Her fingers brushed his chest. His stomach. The trail of hair below his navel.
"You're shaking," she said.
"I know."
"Are you nervous?"
"No." He swallowed. "I'm trying not to rush."
She pushed his jacket off. Let it fall. Unbuttoned his pants. Pushed them down. He stepped out of them. Stood in his boxers. Hard. Visible.
She looked at him. All of him. Then reached behind her back. Unhooked her bra. Let it drop.
His mouth went dry.
"Bedroom," he said.
She took his hand.
---
The bedroom was dark except for the city glow through the windows. A California king sat against the wall. Black sheets. Stupidly soft.
He laid her down. Slow. Careful. Like she was something that could break.
She pulled him down on top of her.
Her skin was warm. Soft. He kissed her neck. Her collarbone. The hollow of her throat. Moved lower. Took one nipple in his mouth. Sucked. She arched. Moaned.
He kissed his way down her stomach. Over her hips. Hooked his fingers in her panties. Pulled them down. Threw them somewhere.
She was bare. Wet. Ready.
"Zay—"
He kissed the inside of her thigh.
"Let me."
She let him.
He tasted her. Slow. Deliberate. Tongue flat against her clit. Then circling. Then pressing inside her. She gasped. Her hands found his head. Fingers tangled in his hair.
"Fuck," she breathed.
He didn't stop. Didn't speed up. Just worked her. Learned her. Found the rhythm that made her hips lift off the bed.
"Right there," she said. "Don't stop."
He didn't.
She came on his tongue. Shuddering. Calling his name. He kept going until she pushed him away.
"Too much," she gasped.
He crawled up her body. Kissed her mouth. Let her taste herself.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Yes."
He positioned himself. Pushed inside her.
Slow. Inch by inch. She was tight. Wet. Perfect.
"Fuck," he groaned.
She wrapped her legs around his waist. Pulled him deeper.
"Move."
He moved.
Slow at first. Long strokes. Watching her face. Her mouth open. Her eyes closed.
"Look at me," he said.
She opened her eyes.
"I want you to see me."
She saw him.
He fucked her deeper. Harder. The bed creaked. The city glittered. Sweat formed on his brow. Her nails dug into his back.
"You feel so good," he said. "So fucking good."
She couldn't respond. Just held on.
He kissed her. Swallowed her moans. Felt her tighten around him.
"Come for me," he said. "I wanna feel it."
"I'm—"
"Come."
She did.
He felt it—the clench. The shudder. The way her body milked him. Her eyes flew open. White bursts behind them. Stars. Actual stars.
"Zay—"
"Fuck—"
He came. Hard. Spilling inside her. Collapsing on top of her. Breathing ragged.
They lay there. Tangled. Sweaty. Perfect.
He didn't pull out. Couldn't. Didn't want to.
She stroked his back. Slow. Gentle.
"That was..."
"Yeah," he said.
"Better than nice."
"I know."
She laughed. Soft. Breathless.
He rolled off her. Pulled her against his chest. His arm locked around her waist. Her head on his heart.
"I love you," she whispered.
The words hung in the dark.
He didn't say them back.
But he held her tighter.
And that was enough.
For now.
---
She woke at 3 AM.
The city was still awake. Lights flickering. Cars moving. Life happening below.
She was alone in the bed.
She sat up. Looked around. The bathroom door was cracked. Light spilled through.
She slipped out of bed. Wrapped herself in a sheet. Walked to the bathroom.
He was standing at the sink. Shirtless. Staring in the mirror. His knuckles were scabbed. Bruised. He hadn't changed the bandage.
"You okay?" she asked.
He looked at her in the mirror.
"Yeah."
"Don't lie to me."
He turned. Leaned against the counter.
"I'm not used to this."
"To what?"
"To someone staying."
She walked to him. Wrapped her arms around his waist. Pressed her cheek to his chest.
"I'm not going anywhere."
He didn't respond. Just held her.
They stood there. In the bathroom light. The city humming below.
"Come back to bed," she said.
He followed her.
They lay down. His arm around her. Her leg over his.
"What happens now?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She was quiet.
Then: "I want to meet your people. For real. Not just a party."
He tensed.
"That's a lot."
"I know."
"My people aren't... they're not like your people."
"I know."
"You sure?"
She lifted her head. Looked at him.
"I'm sure."
He stared at her. Long. Hard.
"Okay."
She settled back against him.
"Okay."
He kissed her forehead.
"Goodnight, Nova."
"Goodnight, Zay."
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't dream of falling.
She dreamed of flying.
He stayed awake. Watching her breathe. Wondering how he'd gotten here.
Wondering how he'd survive when it all fell apart.
Because it would. It always did.
But for now—just for now—he let himself have this.
Her. The key. The illusion of permanence.
He closed his eyes.
And prayed he was wrong.
And prayed he was wrong.
The prayer didn't take.
Morning came through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a slow flood, turning the black sheets gray, then gold. Nova stirred against his chest. Her hair tickled his jaw. He hadn't moved all night. Didn't want to disturb her. Didn't want to admit he'd been awake for hours, listening to her breathe.
She mumbled something into his skin.
"What?"
"I said you snore."
"I don't snore."
"You do. Little puffs. Like a angry cat."
He huffed. "That's disrespectful."
She laughed. Sleepy. Warm. She lifted her head, eyes still half-closed, hair a wild mess around her face. "Good morning, boyfriend."
The word hit him somewhere soft. He didn't hate it.
"Morning."
She kissed his chest. Quick. Casual. Like they'd been doing this for years. "I need coffee."
"There's a machine in the kitchen."
"Make it for me?"
He stared at her. She stared back. Wide eyes. Innocent smile. Manipulative as hell.
"Fine."
He got up. Pulled on boxers. Walked to the kitchen. The penthouse was quiet. The city was still waking up outside. He measured beans. Filled the reservoir. Pressed the button.
The machine hissed. He leaned against the counter. Rubbed his face.
She appeared in the doorway wearing his shirt. Just his shirt. Nothing else. The navy button-down from last night, hanging to her thighs, sleeves swallowing her hands.
He forgot about the coffee.
"You're gonna kill me."
She grinned. Walked over. Wrapped her arms around his waist. "You like it?"
"I like it too much."
She pressed up on her toes. Kissed his jaw. "So what's the plan today?"
The machine beeped. He poured two cups. Handed her one.
"I gotta go to the store. Inventory day."
"Can I come?"
He paused mid-sip. "To the record store?"
"No, to the moon." She rolled her eyes. "Yes, the record store."
"It's boring."
"I don't care."
"It's gonna take hours."
"I have hours."
He looked at her. Real. Measured. "You really wanna spend your Saturday watching me count vinyl?"
She shrugged. "I wanna spend my Saturday with you. The vinyl is just a bonus."
Something cracked open in his chest. Small. Dangerous.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah. Come."
She kissed him. Coffee breath and morning warmth. "Good."
---
The store was cold when they walked in. Zay killed the alarm. Flipped the lights. The neon sign outside buzzed, flickering against the front windows.
Nova wandered the aisles. Fingers trailing along the crates. Stopping to pull out records. Studying covers.
"This place is incredible."
"It's a mess."
"It's a museum."
He watched her flip through the jazz section. Pull out a Coltrane. Hold it up like a trophy.
"You have A Love Supreme."
"Original pressing."
She looked at him. Eyes wide. "Shut up."
"No shit."
She slid it back into the sleeve. Carefully. Reverently. "How'd you get this?"
"Estate sale. Old dude in Pasadena. Wife died. He wanted them gone."
"That's sad."
"That's life."
She moved to the soul section. Pulled out a Marvin Gaye. Then a Stevie Wonder. Then an Isley Brothers.
"You have taste."
"I have collection."
She turned. Looked at him. "You're different here."
"What do you mean?"
"Here. This place. You're... softer."
He tensed. "I'm not soft."
"You're not hard, either." She walked toward him. Slow. "You're just... you. The version of you that actually looks happy."
He didn't respond.
She stopped in front of him. Close. Close enough to touch.
"I like this version."
He reached out. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late."
He kissed her. Quick. Then pulled back.
"Inventory."
"Right. Inventory."
---
They spent the afternoon counting records. Zay on the laptop. Nova on the floor. She called out titles. He checked them against the system. Mostly they worked in silence. Comfortable. Easy.
Around two, the door chimed.
Zay looked up. Hand moving instinctively toward his waistband.
The man who walked in was tall. Broad. Tattoos crawling up his neck. He wore a plain white tee and jeans that had seen better days.
"Zay."
"Marco."
Marco looked at Nova. Then back at Zay. A slow grin.
"Who's this?"
"Nova."
"Your girl?"
"My girlfriend."
Marco's eyebrows shot up. "Shit. For real?"
"For real."
Marco extended a hand toward Nova. She took it. Firm grip.
"Nice to meet you. Zay doesn't bring people around."
"I'm starting to figure that out."
Marco laughed. Looked at Zay. "She's cool."
"I know."
"Hey, listen—" Marco's voice dropped. "We got a situation."
Zay glanced at Nova. Then at Marco. "Later."
"It's important."
"Later."
Marco nodded. Backed off. "Aight. I'll hit you tonight."
He left.
The door chimed. The store went quiet.
Nova looked at Zay. "Situation?"
"Business."
"What kind of business?"
He didn't answer.
She stood up. Dusted off her jeans. "Zay."
"Nova."
"I'm not gonna pretend I don't know who you are. What you do."
He turned to face her. Arms crossed. "And?"
"And I'm not asking you to explain. I'm just asking you to be careful."
He stared at her. Long. Hard.
"I'm always careful."
She walked over. Touched his chest. "Good."
---
That night, he brought her to the penthouse. They ordered takeout. Ate on the floor by the windows. Watched the city light up.
"You ever think about leaving?" she asked.
"The city?"
"No. This. The life."
He chewed. Swallowed. "Sometimes."
"What would you do?"
"I don't know. Open a record store somewhere quiet. Beach town. No one knowing my name."
She looked at him. "That sounds nice."
"It's a fantasy."
"Fantasies can be plans."
He leaned back against the couch. Looked up at the ceiling. "Not for people like me."
She set her food down. Crawled over to him. Straddled his lap.
"People like you?"
"People with records. People with obligations. People who can't just walk away."
She cupped his face in her hands. "You're not trapped, Isaiah."
He froze.
"What did you call me?"
Her eyes widened. "Isaiah. That's your name, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then that's what I'm calling you."
He stared at her. Something shifted behind his eyes. Something raw.
"No one calls me that."
"I know." She kissed him. Soft. "That's why I'm doing it."
He grabbed her hips. Pulled her closer. "You're gonna get me killed."
"Probably."
"Worth it?"
She pulled back. Looked at him. Grinned.
"Definitely."
He laughed. Real. Deep. She felt it in her bones.
"Isaiah."
"What?"
"I like saying it. It sounds like you."
"It sounds like my dad."
"It sounds like a man who'd open a record store on the beach."
He kissed her. Hard. Grabbed her ass. Lifted her.
"Bedroom."
"What about dinner?"
"Fuck dinner."
She wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her through the penthouse. Kicked open the bedroom door.
He laid her on the bed. Crawled on top of her. Slow. Deliberate. Kissed her neck. Her collarbone. Her mouth.
"You're gonna call me that around my people," he said.
"Isaiah?"
"Yeah."
"You don't want me to?"
He paused. Looked at her.
"I don't know what I want."
She touched his face. Gentle. "Then figure it out."
He kissed her. Deeper. Hungrier. His hands found the hem of her shirt. Pulled it over her head.
"Isaiah."
"What?"
"Take your clothes off."
He smirked. "Yes, ma'am."
He stripped. She helped. Tugging. Pulling. Discarding. Then they were skin against skin. Heat against heat.
He kissed down her body. Slow. Worshipful. Stopped at her breasts. Sucked one nipple. Then the other. She arched. Moaned.
"Isaiah—"
He kissed lower. Stomach. Hips. Thighs.
"Isaiah—"
He spread her legs. Breathed her in. Let his tongue drag across her clit.
"Fuck."
He worked her. Patient. Methodical. Tasting her. Learning her. Two fingers inside. Curled just right. She gasped. Grabbed his hair.
"Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning to."
She came on his face. Shuddering. Calling his name—his real name. Over and over.
"Isaiah. Isaiah. Isaiah."
He crawled up. Positioned himself. Pushed inside her.
Slow. Deep. Letting her feel every inch.
"You feel that?"
"Yes."
"That's what you do to me."
She wrapped her legs around him. Pulled him deeper.
"Move."
He moved. Slow. Then faster. Harder. The bed groaned. She groaned louder.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked.
"I want you to see who's fucking you."
She saw. Dark eyes. Sweat-slicked skin. The man behind the name.
"Isaiah."
"That's right."
He fucked her harder. Deeper. Every stroke deliberate. Punishing. Perfect.
"I'm gonna come," she gasped.
"Come on my dick."
"Isaiah—"
"Come."
She came. Clenching. Screaming. Vision going white.
He followed. Groaned. Spilled inside her. Collapsed.
They lay there. Tangled. Sweaty. Breathing hard.
He didn't pull out. Didn't want to.
She stroked his back. Slow. Gentle.
"You're gonna have to tell them," she said.
"Tell who what?"
"Your people. About me. That I call you Isaiah."
He lifted his head. Looked at her.
"You really want that?"
"I want to meet them. For real. No party. No crowd. Just dinner. Your family."
He didn't respond.
She touched his face.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "So you might as well let them know."
He stared at her. Long. Hard.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll set it up. Friday. My place. You cook."
"I cook?"
"You said you wanted to meet them. Earn it."
She laughed. Pushed his chest.
"Fine. But you're doing the dishes."
"Deal."
He kissed her. Rolled onto his back. Pulled her onto his chest.
She rested her head on his heart.
"Friday," she said.
"Friday."
"I'm nervous."
"Good."
"Isaiah?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
He didn't ask for what. Didn't need to.
He just held her.
And for the first time in years, he felt like he wasn't holding his breath.
---
Friday
She spent the day at her apartment. Cooking. Two pots on the stove. One in the oven. Music playing low.
She'd texted him earlier. What do they eat?
His reply: Everything.
That wasn't helpful.
So she made a feast. Arroz con pollo. Black beans. Plantains. A salad with lime dressing. Cornbread because she was Southern and couldn't help herself.
At six, Isaiah called.
"You ready?"
"I'm never gonna be ready."
"Too late. They're on their way."
She hung up. Checked her reflection. Dark jeans. White blouse. Hair up. Simple. Elegant.
The buzzer rang at six forty-five.
She opened the door.
Isaiah stood there. Black sweater. Dark jeans. Arms full of flowers.
"Sunflowers," she said.
"Always."
He handed them over. Kissed her cheek.
"You look beautiful."
"I look nervous."
"Same thing."
He stepped inside. Surveyed the kitchen.
"It smells amazing."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not surprised. I'm impressed."
She swatted his arm.
The buzzer rang again.
He went to answer.
The first person through the door was Marcus. Tall. Broad. Easy smile. He nodded at Nova.
"Hey. I'm Marcus."
"I remember. From the party."
"Right. The fine-ass gangster."
She laughed. "That was my friend, not me."
"Still." He handed her a bottle of wine. "For the host."
More people filtered in. A woman—short, lean, sharp eyes—named Elena. Two brothers who looked alike—Tito and Ramón. A quiet kid with gold-rimmed glasses called Lil Mike. Then Marco, who she'd met at the store.
They filled the living room. Grabbed chairs. Claimed spots. The apartment felt smaller. Warmer.
Isaiah stood by the door. Watching. Alert. Making sure she was okay.
She caught his eye. Nodded. Small. Reassuring.
He relaxed. Marginally.
Dinner was served. Family style. Everyone loaded plates. Talked over each other. Laughed loud.
"This is incredible," Elena said. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"
"My mama."
"She in the South?"
"Georgia."
"That explains it."
The conversation flowed. Stories. Jokes. Roasts.
Marcus turned to Nova. "So how'd you end up with this asshole?"
She swallowed her wine. "He showed up at my door with pastries and bruised knuckles."
The table went quiet. Everyone looked at Isaiah.
"Bruised knuckles?" Tito repeated.
"Someone hurt me," Nova said. "He made it clear that wasn't gonna happen again."
Elena laughed. "That sounds like Zay."
"Isaiah," Nova corrected.
The table went still.
"What?"
"That's his name. Isaiah."
Marco leaned forward. "No one calls him that."
"I do."
"And he's okay with that?"
She looked at Isaiah. He was watching her. Eyes dark. Unreadable.
"He's okay with it," he said.
The table erupted.
"Shit, Zay let you call him that?"
"Man, I'm not calling him no church name."
"Isaiah sounds like a preacher."
"Isaiah sounds like a old man."
"Y'all gonna make me call him that now?"
Isaiah held up a hand. "You call me whatever you want. She calls me Isaiah."
Lil Mike adjusted his glasses. "That's cute."
"It's not cute."
"It's cute as hell."
"Shut up, Mike."
Nova laughed. Loud. Real. The tension broke. Everyone relaxed. The table filled with noise again.
Elena leaned over. Voice low. "You're good for him."
Nova looked at her. "You think so?"
"I know so. He's been... different. Since you."
"Different how?"
"Calmer. Less angry." She shrugged. "Less like he's waiting for someone to stab him in the back."
Nova looked at Isaiah. He was mid-conversation with Tito. Something about a shipment. He caught her eye. Smiled.
Small. Private. Just for her.
Her heart skipped.
"Good," she said.
---
After dinner, they moved to the living room. Wine. Whiskey. Vinyl playing low.
Marcus pulled her aside.
"Can I tell you something?"
"Sure."
"He's never had this."
"Had what?"
"Family. Real family." Marcus's voice was quiet. "We're it. The crew. He took us in when no one else would. Fed us. Clothed us. Kept us from killing each other. Or ourselves."
Nova watched Isaiah across the room. He was laughing at something Ramón said. Full-body laugh. Head thrown back.
"He's not just our leader," Marcus continued. "He's our brother. Our father. Everything."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because he brought you here. Into his home. Around his family. That means something."
She nodded. "I know."
"Do you?"
She looked at Marcus. Steady. "I do."
He studied her. Then nodded. "Good."
---
The night wound down.
People left. Hugs. Daps. Promises to do it again.
Elena kissed Nova's cheek. "You're welcome anytime."
"Thank you."
Lil Mike shook her hand. "Nice meeting you."
"You too."
Then it was just them. The apartment quiet. The city humming outside.
Isaiah closed the door. Leaned against it. Looked at her.
"That was..."
"Good," she said.
"Yeah."
"They love you."
"They tolerate me."
"They love you, Isaiah."
He shook his head. Walked over. Pulled her into his arms.
"You did good tonight."
"I know."
He laughed. Kissed her forehead.
"You really gonna keep calling me that?"
"I am."
"Even when I'm being scary?"
"Especially then."
He stared at her. Something warm in his eyes.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'm keeping you."
She raised an eyebrow. "Was that in question?"
"No." He pulled her closer. "Not anymore."
She kissed him. Slow. Deliberate. Letting him taste the wine on her tongue.
"Bedroom," she whispered.
He lifted her. Carried her through the penthouse. Laid her on the bed.
No rush this time.
He stripped her slowly. Kissed every inch of skin he revealed. When he pushed inside her, it was gentle. Reverent. Like worship.
She came with his name on her lips. His real name. The one no one else said.
"Isaiah."
He followed. Collapsed.
Held her.
Long after she fell asleep, he stayed awake. Listening. To her breath. To the city. To the silence that didn't feel empty anymore.
He pressed his lips to her hair.
And for the first time in his life, he didn't pray.
He believed.