Chapter 1
She missed New York like a phantom limb; aching and ever-present. Missed the dive bars that smelled like beer and regret, the Banksy stencils bleeding rebellion onto brick walls, the wild graffiti that turned alleyways into confessionals. She missed the tissue thin. “I Love New York” t-shirts clinging to sunburnt tourists, the fog that curled through Central Park like breath on glass, the gaudy chaos of Times Square humming with light and life and the endless thrum, of possibility.
“Hey, did you know that they shot Twin Peaks along these parts?” Cole yelled starring into the mirror while he lathered his face with shaving cream. She was going to miss that stubble.
“Just outside Seattle”
“That’s great” Brooke replied. She lay sprawled across the bed in nothing but a threadbare tank top and cotton panties, one leg hooked lazily over crumpled sheets, the radiator hissing in the corner. An issue of Alternative Press was open across her stomach, its glossy pages still stiff and smelling like the corner shop where she grabbed it with a pack of gum and a warm soda. She flipped through slowly, pausing on a shot of Layne Staley mid-howl, ink black eyes staring back like he knew too much. The interviews felt urgent, like manifestos for the disillusioned. She smirked at a sarcastic album review.
“Are you even listening?” he asked, stepping back into the room with steam still clinging to his skin, a towel slung low around his hips and another over his neck. He tossed her a can of beer-half warm, half thoughtful- and she caught it without looking up from the magazine.
They’s met three years ago through a Craigslist listing. She was selling a cello, desperate for rent money and done pretending she cared about Bach. He said he wanted to buy it. That was a lie, of course. His real instrument was the piano, always had been. But he’d shown up anyway, looking like he belonged in a band that never made it past garage rehearsals. And something about the way she’d looked, made him stay.
Kismet.
“Yes, I’m listening, “she said, finally glancing up at him. “You love it here. In fact, you might already be in love with Seattle after what- three months?” she scoffed, with a hint of a smile.
She ran her thumb around the rim of the can, the metal cool and slick under her skin, then popped it open with a satisfying hiss. The beer foamed a little at the top and she took a long sip, letting it settle it low in her chest.
Outside, it was drizzling again- the kind of drizzle that never really stopped, just changed shape, turned corners, kissed windows. Soft, persistent and so fucking green. Moss on brick. Ivy in gutters. The whole city soaked in chlorophyll. Emerald city- but less fairy tale, more fever dream.
“You’ll fall in love with it too. “He said, tossing the towel onto the radiator with a soft thud. “I mean, it’s the city that gave birth to Jimi Hendrix, Nirvana. What could be fucking better than that?”
He was grinning, self-assured in that way that always bordered on boyish. She didn’t answer right away. Her green eyes trailed down the lines of his torso, slow and deliberate- the damp skin, the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the towel, the lean muscle that came more often from restless energy than any kind of discipline.
She took another sip of beer, swallowed lazily and said, “The bad boys of rock, right?”
“What is it about bad boys?” she asked, stretching one bare leg in front of her, the hem of her tank riding up just enough to tease. Her eyes were on nim now; sharp, amused, and a little mean in the way he secretly liked. “They do absolutely nothing for me.”
“He cocked a brow, still towel-wrapped and dripping onto the hardwood. “You sure about that?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely” she leaned back on her elbows.
The corner of his mouth twitched, half a smile, half a dare.” Then I guess its lucky I’m not trying to be one.”
“Good, “she said, but her voice had gone quieter.
The radiator hissed. The rain deepened and the space between them held its breath.
“Are you just gonna stand there and watch?” she asked, biting her bottom lip like she didn’t know the answer.
“I need to be at the studio in thirty, “he said but his feet were already moving toward her, slow and inevitable, “And don’t you have an interview to prepare for?”
Brooke let out a mock whimper, dramatic and drawn out like a puppy denied a treat, then held up two fingers. “I just need two minutes.”
“Ouch,” he said, grinning as he reached the edge of the bed. “I think that the first time I’ve ever been insulted and propositioned at the same time.”
“You love it.” She murmured, tipping her head back, as he leaned it.
“You have no idea.”
Cole braced one hand on the mattress beside her hip, the other brushing damp curls off her forehead. The smirk had softened to something else- something quieter, more curious.
She didn’t move at first. Just let her eyes drink him up close- the shaven jaw, the warm flush still on his chest from the shower, the way he was looking at her like she was a song he didn’t know the words to yet.
Then she whispered, “Two minutes. Clock’s ticking.”
That did it.
He kissed her like he was trying to make her take it back, no gentle easing in, no slow burn- just heat and pressure and the clean addictive taste of toothpaste and beer. Her lips parted on instinct, and he slid his hand beneath her tank top, his fingers finding the familiar curve of her waist.
She smiled against his mouth. “You’re really gonna be late.”
“Worth it,” he breathed, and kissed her again, slower this time- deep, deliberate, like he had all day, even though they both knew he didn’t.
It felt like everything else could wait.
Just a little longer.
She ached into him, her body already warm and pliant. She sucked in a breath as his thumb found the underside of her breast, light and teasing.
“You’re stalling, “Brooke murmured against his jaw, but her voice had gone husky, breathy.
“Maybe, “he replied, brushing his lips the down the column of her neck. “Maybe I want to remember this when I’m stuck in the studio.
She laughed, low and throaty, her fingers sinking into the towel at his waist.
“Two minutes, “he reminded her, voice rough now, hand trailing over her hip.
“Take your time,” she whispered. “I lied.”
And then the towel hit the floor.
