Page 106 of Velvet Chains

Then silence.

Only the fire. The storm. And our breathing.

We lay there on the hardwood for a long time, catching our breath. The fire crackled soft and slow. Snow piled against the window, a white wall that made the rest of the world feel distant and unreal.

“Hi,” he said when his breathing slowed. “Are you going to offer me a drink now?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You want wine?”

“Yeah,” he said, like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted. “I want to pretend this is normal. At least for ten minutes.”

I got up, legs a little rubbery, pulled my shirt back on and found a glass, poured it full. I handed it to him. “There. You’re normal.”

He grunted, more animal than man. He stretched, the lines of his tattoo stretching over his abs. He sat on my couch. “See? You can drink from your own glass. Now we’re both normal.”

I sat next to him, close—the way old lovers do, when they still remember how to reach for each other without asking first. The snow fell harder outside, making the city look softer, blurring the hard edges of everything that wasn’t him or me.

He took a long sip. Exhaled slow.

“Can I stay?” he asked, voice almost shy.

I nodded, even though it was the only thing I shouldn’t have done. “It’s too late to go anywhere. Roads are a mess.”

He smiled into his wine glass, then let the smile fade. For a long time we just sat in the quiet. He drained the glass, poured himself another, took smaller sips this time. His thigh brushed mine once, then again, and I let it stay.

It reminded me of nights from another life.

The first time we ever spent the night together, we’d done the same thing—fucked until we were shaking, then curled up like we had nothing to be afraid of. No plan, no label, just breath and heat and the comfort of someone who felt like a bad habit you didn’t want to quit.

We’d sat on the floor of his old apartment, splitting a bottle of stolen wine, eating from a plastic takeout container, pretending we weren’t already in over our heads. His hand on my knee. My foot tucked beneath his thigh. I remembered the feel of his stubble rasping against my collarbone as he leaned in to tell me something stupid that made me laugh too loud. I remembered thinking: This can’t last. But God, I want it to.

Now, years later, we were right back in it. The same rhythm. The same ache. The same pull.

“I used to love this,” I murmured, more to myself than to him.

He glanced at me, brows raised.

“Just this,” I said, waving vaguely at the fire, the wine, the hush between us. “The part after.”

His expression softened. “Me too.”

And for a moment, it was almost enough. Almost like nothing had broken. Almost like the world outside the snowstorm didn’t exist at all.

“Tell me about the meeting,” he said.

I hesitated, but only because part of me wanted to protect him. That part was small now. The rest was pure caution. “It’s after the holidays. She’s going to ask what I know, who I know, why my name turns up on filings from half the city. She’ll probably ask about Mickey Russell.”

“I don’t understand why they were following him in the first place.”

“I don’t think they were, Kieran. I think they were following you.”

He went still.

“They want this to be huge. You’re a Callahan. Massive fucking get. They’ll throw whatever they can at it. They’ll arrest anyone who’s stood within ten feet of you or me if it gives them political capital.”

“And you?”

I exhaled. “She’ll ask about that too.”