The question hangs in the night air, more honest than anything I've shared with another person in decades. I feel stripped bare by my own words, vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with physical danger and everything to do with the core of my identity.
Lucas's hand moves across the space between us, his fingers finding mine in a gesture so unexpected I nearly pull away. His skin is warm against mine, the heat of him a counterpoint to the cold stone beneath our palms. The contact sends awareness coursing through me—not just the physical sensation, but the rarity of it. How long has it been since someone touched me without agenda or obligation? Since a connection formed not despite what I am, but with full knowledge of it?
"Then I'll find you," he says, his eyes reflecting the city
