37. Love Is Falling Anyway
The door opened to reveal Winter with a hesitant smile on his face. It was the most endearingly vulnerable sight that Sydney had ever seen, and she felt a pleasant shiver run down her spine.
"Hello," she said softly.
"How the hell did you get in here?" he replied, glancing down the street. "That gate's ten feet high, and the security guard didn't call me."
A month apart, and those were the first words out of his mouth. Sydney couldn't help the smile that emerged on her lips.
"Don't you know me at all?" she answered, and he laughed.
The only time she'd ever really gotten a chance to take him in was, well, during their night together—and even now, she had the urge to keep her sights trained on his front yard, ever wary of watchful eyes. But they were alone here, and for once, she let herself admire him.
"Let's just say that I'm not supposed to be here," she added. "Can I come in?"
He opened the door wider, and she stepped inside, removing her wet shoes before glancing around. The space was serene and cozy, more modest than she thought a superstar's home would be, filled with clean lines and thick rugs, fluffy couches and tasteful lights.
A beautiful grand piano stood at the far end of the living room, past a fireplace and against a series of glass walls that led to the garden outside. It was there that Winter led them now, facing her as he leaned against the instrument's sleek body with his hands in his pockets.
"Did Sauda send you?" he asked.
She shook her head.
He raised an eyebrow at her. "She's going to kill you if she finds out."
"Yeah, well, I'm always going to be her problem child."
"I'm pretty sure Tems took that title from you." His smile wavered. "What are you doing here?"
They were close enough now that she could feel the slight warmth of his breath against her skin. "I wanted to see you," she said simply.
This time, she thought she could see a shudder of fear run through him, could make out the subtle widening of his eyes, as if he couldn't quite believe his ears.
"I…" he said, his voice hoarse, "I can't see you. It's too risky."
"I know," she replied. "And yet here I am." Then she felt the fear, too, and her eyes lowered. "Please don't turn me away," she whispered.
When she looked up at him again, the fear in his eyes was gone, replaced by something gentler. "How long do you have?" he murmured.
"Not long." She looked out the window again, then back at him. "I have to be on a flight tomorrow morning."
He studied her face for answers. She didn't know if he found them, but after another pause, he reached his hand out and took hers, letting their fingers intertwine loosely. His skin felt warm, leaving her palm tingling.
He glanced toward the stairs. "Follow me," he whispered.
She did so without a word as he led her up the steps and along a narrow hall that opened into a large, lush suite of a bedroom, one with the same long windows overlooking the private courtyard. The rain sounded more subdued up here, the echo hollow against his roof. It was just enough noise that, if they whispered, it was as if they weren't speaking at all.
Here, he turned toward her and moved closer. She took a step back until she could feel the glass behind her. His eyes were locked on hers now, and in those dark irises, she could catch reflections of the storm outside.
"I can't promise you anything," she whispered.
He nodded, but his gaze never broke from hers. "I know," he whispered back.
Sydney felt a familiar panic rising once more. "I can't say that I love you, and I can't be here when you need me. I can't cheer for you when you accomplish something great. I can't accept any gifts from you, and I can't give you anything in return. I can't tell you when I'm in trouble. I won't even have a phone number you can dial, not unless you want to risk Sauda finding out about us." She swallowed. Sydney had been in a thousand situations that should frighten anyone, but this moment scared her more than any of them. "I know I shouldn't be here, Winter. I can't give you anything real."
"Then let's not make each other promises we can't keep," he replied. He reached out to run his fingers through her hair, and she leaned into his embrace, savoring the warmth of his skin as if she might never feel it again.
"What can we keep?" she murmured.
He lowered his head toward hers, his eyes turned shyly down. When his lips brushed against her cheek, she felt herself lean instinctively forward. Her eyes fluttered closed. He planted soft kisses at the edges of her lips, then kissed her fully. His lips were so soft, the taste of him so sweet. Vaguely, she could feel him sliding her jacket from her shoulders, and shivered at the feeling of his fingers running against the fabric of her shirt.
"Here's a promise I can give to you," he whispered in her ear. "I promise that, when you need me, you can always find me."
He kissed her, and she kissed him back, tugging the collar of his shirt loose, hinting for more, afraid for more, cherishing this little slice of time.
"If you find yourself feeling alone," he whispered, "I promise I'll come to you."
Would he ever brush against her skin again?
Would she ever get to touch his lips again?
He pulled away just enough to meet her gaze. His hand touched her chin, tilting it up gently. "And someday," he murmured, "in some future, when I'm no longer wanted on a stage, and when you no longer want to be a secret agent… let's say that, if you aren't trying to find someone else, I promise I'll come find you." His lips brushed hers again. "I promise I'm yours."
A future where Winter stepped away from the spotlight and she stepped out of the shadows. Sydney closed her eyes, felt his hands run along her back, and let herself imagine the possibility. It sounded like a scene from a far, far future, one where they'd both grown old—but a possible one, one that could exist.
"It's a promise," she said softly.
His hand grasped hers and brought it up to his chest, where she could feel the faint rhythm of his heart. His breaths were shallow, and his eyes were still closed, as if savoring some sacred thing. He leaned his forehead against hers. Locks of black hair fell across his face.
"I don't love you," he murmured.
"I don't love you, too," she whispered back.
Later, when he was asleep beside her, she would rise in the dark and slip her clothes on without a sound, would disappear from his room along with the last traces of night. When he woke up alone and unsurprised, she would already be on a plane, staring down at the approaching landscape of a different city. She didn't know when they would see each other again. She didn't know whether their feelings for each other would remain the same. There were a million things she couldn't begin to know.
But perhaps there was beauty in not knowing. Maybe that was its own form of love, the faith of coming together even when you couldn't see the path in front of you, when you had no idea whether joy or heartbreak would await you further down the road of life, when you had nothing but a guiding light in the distance to yearn for.
Maybe love was not knowing and going ahead anyway.
So this time, when he kissed her, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
And let herself fall.