Page 84 of Grim

We climb through the attic and onto the roof like we’re kids sneaking into forbidden places. Kane helps me balance as we step onto the old slate tiles, slick with rain and gleaming like black agate under the moonlight.

The storm hasn’t stopped, but it’s slowed. The thunder rolls lazily, lightning streaking purple and gold across the sky like celestial graffiti.

“This,” he says, turning to me, “might be as close to swimming under the moon as you’re going to get.”

The rain plasters my dress to my skin. I laugh, breathless from the climb, from the view, from him.

“That’s very sweet,” I acknowledge.

“A bit out of character, I know, but gotta keep you on your toes,” he answers sardonically.

“Why are you really doing all this?” I ask, suddenly quiet.

He eyes me and sighs heavily through the drizzle. “Because time is cruel. And you’ve had less of it than most.”

We stand side by side. He doesn’t touch me, but his presence hums warm and steady beside me, like a promise he hasn’t made yet.

“You talk about your father,” he says, “but not your mother.”

I sigh, rain trailing down my cheek, like it’s doing the crying for me. “I’ve always been closer to my dad than Mom. You wouldn’t think that would be the case with her being an artist, but—”

I shift and nearly slip. Kane instinctively reaches out and grabs me, pulling me flush to his soaked form. I’ve forgotten what I was saying. All I can think about is my dream and how this feels so much better than my brain envisioned.

“But what?” His voice is too husky, and I feel my thighs clenching together.

“B-ut … her art isn’t mine. I love her. She’s always been as caring as she could. But she’s a rolling stone. She wasn’t thestay home and bake cookiestype of mom. She’s an artist. My dad was the one who got me into books. They divorced when I was young, and I spent most of my time with her in Chicago, unless Dad was here. So, we planned books to read while he was working. That way, it never truly felt like we were apart for long.”

“Wow,” he murmurs.

I notice the distant look in his eyes and see if I can bring him back to this moment. “What were your parents like?”

“Surprisingly similar. My mother was sharp and whip-smart. She hosted artists at our estate for monthly celebrations. The rooms would be abuzz with music and poetry and conversation. She was instrumental in helping many young authors find funding and support for publishing their work. She, perhaps, did a better job of instilling a love of the arts in me than she did of simply loving me, but I was always provided for.” Kane runs his fingers through his hair before continuing.

“My father, Ambroise, was a busy man. He was a doctor before me, especially accomplished in tending to the fallen in battle. I played with his surgical instruments more than I played with him.”

I give him a dry smile. “And yet you turned out so emotionally available.”

He snorts. “I made a damn good doctor and a fine lover … of the arts.”

The soft smirk he offers suggests that the pause in that sentence was intentional. He thinks he’s being cute, but I know he’s simply trying to deflect before this conversation gets any more personal. I relent and give in to the quietness of the wind and the rain.

The roof is slick beneath my bare feet, rain falling in sheets that glitter beneath the almost-full moon. Lightning shreds the sky, illuminating Kane’s silhouette as he stands next to me, his arms still supporting mine. His clothes are completely soaked through, his white shirt clinging to every plane of muscle like a second skin.

This might be the closest I ever get to swimming under the moonlight.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” he cuts in, his voice rough and reverent.

“I think I can risk a little pneumonia.” I slide down slightly on the graded rooftop, peering below.

His jaw clenches, lightning catching in his eyes. “Don’t do that,” he snaps.

“Do what?” I ask, raising my face toward him.

“Come back up here. I don’t want you to fall off the edge.”

“Why not?” I half joke.

The thunder rolls long and deep behind us, and the rain falls harder. He bunches his hand around the back of my dress and pulls me back forcibly. When we are side by side again, he takes that same hand and brushes a strand of wet hair off my cheek. His warm palm lingers, steadily cupping my jaw.