I know that feeling.
I pick up the lollipop. Hold it in my fingers. And then I move. Through the crowd of dancing bodies, heart beating fast, crushing through perfume and sweat and the blue-pink pulse of club strobes, no logic or plan except that my body had already decided to follow the current.
The club is a living, breathing thing—too big, too loud, too many shadows that swallow people whole. I push through the crush of bodies on the main floor, the bass hammering against my ribslike a second heartbeat, but I can’t stay down here. Something pulls me upward, an instinct I don’t question anymore.
I slip past a velvet rope, flash the bored bouncer a smile I don’t feel, and climb the narrow staircase to the upper level. The mezzanine is darker, more intimate, its velvet lighting casting everything in deep crimson and gold. A railed gallery circles the dance floor below, giving a perfect view of the writhing crowd, but I don’t look down. My eyes scan the upper walkway, the private balconies tucked into the corners, the pockets of shadow where normal people don’t linger.
He’s here.
I feel it in the way the air thickens, in the slow crawl of heat up my spine. The same heavy, consuming presence that wrapped around me outside the bakery this morning. The same one that’s lived under my skin for three months.
My pulse kicks harder as I move along the gallery, heels clicking against the polished floor. Every shadowed alcove makes my breath catch. Every tall, still figure turns out to be a stranger.
Until I see him.
A hooded figure at the far end of the mezzanine, hood pulled low, broad shoulders slicing through the crimson light like a blade. He’s walking away from me, unhurried, slipping toward a marked “Rooftop Access – Staff Only” door.
I don’t hesitate.
I push through the last few bodies and follow him up the narrow metal service staircase. The bass from the club fades into a distant throb with every step. Cold night air hits my skin as I reach the top and push open the heavy door.
The rooftop terrace opens up around me—Paris glittering below, the wind whipping my dress against my thighs, the distant glow of the Eiffel Tower watching silently.
But he’s not here. There’s no one out here.
My heart sinks and tears and withers as I step up to the parapet, tears stinging my eyes with Paris spread out before me, and the lollipop slips from my fingers.
I was so sure he was here. I was so sure?—
My breath leaves my lungs in a rush. No footsteps. No warning. Just the sudden, suffocating presence of him at my back, so near I can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. I close my eyes, my pulse spiking hard, every piece of my body instantly in agony for him.
“Nazareth,” I breathe, the name cracking on my tongue like a prayer and a plea at once.
“I missed watching you breathe… Sophia Sinclair.”
8
SOPHIA
Oh, God.
Just my name. That low, ruined rasp of his voice that wraps around every syllable like he’s tasting me. It undoes me in a way I’m not ready for.
Months of an empty bed and colder nights explode behind my sternum, and my knees buckle. But his arm snakes around my waist, pulling me back against him. A rush of relief, desire, and something like love crashes over me, and I let myself collapse into his body, the line of his chest at my back, the unmistakable shape of his arms, the way he curves over me like his body’s a fortress designed to protect only one thing.
“Tell me this is real,” I rasp, unable to stop the tears already spilling down my cheeks. “Tell me you’re really here.”
“I’m really here, baby girl.” His lips brush my neck, and I feel the slow, shaky exhale he releases against my skin—like he’s been holding that breath since the day he left me.
I break.
Not with drama or noise. Just… the last frayed thread I’ve been clinging to for three months finally snaps.
A sob rips out of me, ugly and real, the kind I’ve swallowed every single morning when I opened that door and found nothing but silence. I turn in his arms and bury my face in his chest, fists twisting into his hoodie as the tears come harder, shaking my whole body. His familiar scent hits me so hard, I suck in a breath. Winter air and worn leather. A blend of something that makes my heart beat faster.
“It wasn’t enough,” I whimper into his chest. “The flowers, the waiting, the desperate little rituals I built to keep myself from falling apart—none of it was enough because you weren’t there.”
“I know.” His arms come around me instantly, and just hold me—completely, with his whole body—like I’m the only thing in the world worth the weight of his existence.
