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“I always felt like I was the disappointment,” I murmur, eyes drifting to the window. Rain slicks the glass like tears too stubborn to fall. “My mom wanted a perfect daughter. Pretty, polished, poised. Someone who didn’t cry too much or ask why she had to wear heels. Someone more like her. Like my perfect siblings.”
Kingston’s gaze hardens. “You were never the disappointment, Mya. She just didn’t know how to see you.”
His words land like a sucker punch to my chest—unexpected, jarring, and somehow exactly what I needed.
I blink fast, trying not to let it crack me open. “Being with him today…it made me feel like I still matter. At least to him.”
Kingston doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t have to. His presence is enough. Grounding. Anchoring me in the eye of a storm I’ve been trying to outrun for years.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit. “Trying to juggle work, this pregnancy, how my life has blown up, emotions—” I laugh bitterly. “I’m dropping balls left and right.”
He smirks. “That’s what she said.”
A laugh escapes me—unexpected and warm. The tension eases from my shoulders like a sigh wrapped in sunlight. “God, you’re such an idiot.”
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that knocks the wind out of me.
My heart stumbles, clumsy and stupid. Always running toward him even when I tell it not to.
Our eyes lock. Something shifts in the air. Heavy. Humming. Like the static before a thunderstorm.
The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s thick with meaning, the kind of quiet that’s louder than any scream. The kind that says I see you. I know you. I’ve always known you.
And maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t lean into him more than I should.
Maybe I’m tired of pretending he isn’t the only one who’s ever made me feel like being myself is enough.
So I take a step closer.
And then another.
Until I’m standing in front of him, the scent of fresh rain clinging to his hoodie and the ghost of comfort hovering in the space between us.
“Thanks,” I say, voice barely a whisper. “For being here. For asking.”
Kingston shrugs like it’s nothing.
But it’s everything.
Chapter Five
MYA
Four weeks.
That’s how long it takes for chaos to soften into habit. For the sharp edges of a new life to dull into something bearable. New York City doesn’t exactly cradle you gently—it shoves you into its current and dares you to keep up. But somehow, I’m still here. Still swimming.
Kingston’s penthouse isn’t warm in the traditional sense. It’s all dark woods and clean lines, like a brooding architect with a god complex and a black card designed it. The floors shine like oil-slick ocean water beneath the recessed lighting, glossy and unpredictable. Floor-to-ceiling windows slice through one wall, framing Manhattan like the city is on display in a museum—high art in motion.
At night, the skyline glows like it’s flirting. A million lights winking from buildings that never sleep, all of them saying the same thing: Try to forget me. I dare you.
The living room feels like walking into a cigarette ad. Sleek black leather. Cold steel. A low-slung sectional sprawled out like it owns the place, draped in throw pillows that look like they cost more than my first car but couldn’t care less about being touched. There’s a fireplace built into a slab of slate that practically dares you to feel anything. It’s all edges and shadows, a moodboard of masculine restraint. Even the coffee table—glass and chrome—looks like it belongs in a spy movie, seconds from revealing a secret weapon.
The air smells faintly like cedarwood, ambition, and whatever Kingston wears that lingers long after he’s left a room. It’s sharp. Clean. Familiar.
Our routines are still a little clumsy, but they’re starting to stick. He leaves me tea every morning. I take over his kitchen island with campaign strategies, mood boards and content drafts. He plays music too loud when he showers. I forget to turn the lights off when I leave a room. We exist beside each other like a pair of mismatched socks—different but oddly functional.
And Fletcher?
