28. “Stony limits can’t keep love out”

Eight months later

Romeo sits at the dining table with pages strewn all around him, some on the table, some crumpled on the floor at his feet, and others stuck to the fridge and kitchen cabinets with magnets and washi tape. The walls in the apartment are blue, a nice contrast to the brick wall in the living room. It's a dusty blue two or three shades darker than Romeo's eyes. When I painted my apartment years ago, I redid them twice in an effort to achieve a perfect glass-bottle blue, but despite that, it seems the match was a little off.

Turns out, the color doesn't matter that much. Now that Romeo's here and we've hung all of Sal's paintings up, you can hardly see the walls. There's art and gilt frames everywhere.

It's a lot.

It's giving Dark Academia Meets Mad Professor.

I couldn't possibly love it more .

Romeo taps at his keyboard as I approach, a soft rat-a-tat-tat that's synonymous with home to me now. His lips are ajar, an incisor resting on pillowy bottom lip. Daydreamy eyes are wide and slightly glazed over as he watches words appear on his screen. His hair is overlong and unruly, curling at the base of his neck.

He's a vision. The answer to every question I've ever asked. The most beautiful man I've ever seen.

My friend. My lover.

My Romeo.

I pad over to him quietly, bare feet on cool timber, reaching out and stroking his shoulder to bring him down to Earth gently.

He blinks and a blunt tooth scrapes over skin, releasing it as his jaw drops ever so slightly.

As always, he looks a little surprised to see me, like he wasn't expecting me to be here or wasn't expecting to find himself in a New York apartment. He draws a quick breath and surprise gives way to a too-big-to-be-cool smile.

"Morning," he says, hands traveling up my arms, scouring the hair he finds there, and pulling me closer. "Did you sleep well?"

"Mm…" I run my fingers through his hair, combing it gently. "So good. You?"

A hand drifts and fingers curl in the dark hair that runs from my navel to my cock. He tugs at the drawstring of my linen pants and his bottom lip juts out in a tiny pout.

"Why all these clothes, Tiger?"

I laugh and bat him away. "Early meeting," I remind him. "You should've woken me if that's your mood."

"I know." He sighs. "I'll regret it all day, but you looked so peaceful I couldn't bring myself to disturb you." He tilts his head back and offers me his mouth.

I kiss him, stamping my lips lightly against his, grinding my stiffening cock against his hand as it moves down my body. "I'll come home early tonight, okay?" He strokes once or twice, just enough to ensure that my brain goes offline. "I'll make it worth your while. I'll make it so you can't sit all day tomorrow without thinking of me."

"You promise?"

I laugh and kiss him again, reluctantly tearing myself away from him. "D'you wanna come to Sanctum with me? We can get bagels." I say it like it's not something we do almost every weekday.

He glances back at his screen and does a fairly decent job of acting like he's giving the matter serious consideration. Then he pushes his chair back and leads the way to the shower .

His ass is perfection in pajamas. A gentle curve. A perfect peach.

I can't resist it.

I reach out and grab it. A cheek in each hand, humming happily as I dig my fingers into supple flesh.

"I have some terrible news for you, Jude…"

"Really? What's that?"

He looks back and gives me a devilish grin. "You're going to be late for work."

Romeo ties Tiger's leash to a post at the entrance of Sanctum while I place our orders. Onion bagel with peanut butter for me and bacon, egg, cream cheese, and chives for him. He watches, shaking his head and grimacing as I bite into my bagel. He remains wholly unconvinced about my topping choice.

"You're your mother's son, Jude," he says.

I wait until our eyes meet. Glass-bottle blue softens and goes misty, almost as though he knows what I'm going to say before I say it. "So are you."

We sit at a table by the window so we can keep an eye on Tiger and eat in companionable silence. Silence that's interrupted by a jarring, bird-like squawk. I turn to see who the owner of such an abhorrent sound is, and I'm taken aback to find it's a very large, suit-and-tie man in his forties. From the look of him, I'm inclined to think he's choking, but his face isn't going red, and his finger is pointed straight out at one of the patrons.

He's starstruck, that's what he is, and when I follow his line of sight, I see why. Broad shoulders and narrow hips wind their way through the store. Dark-blond hair curls and falls forward, and an easy smile cracks a handsome face open.

"Holy shit," hisses Romeo, swatting my arm. "Are you checking him out?"

"Wha— No! God, no, Romeo. I'm not, he's…" I do things with my eyes that suggest that I've just spotted a real-life famous person, or that I require emergency medical attention. It goes straight over Romeo's head. He's on his feet in a second and his hands are cupped on the sides of my face, a pair of makeshift blinkers made specially for me by my jealous boy.

I try not to swoon, but only because the last thing he needs is encouragement.

All I can see, blinkered like this, is Romeo's beautiful face, pinched, brows as high as they can possibly go. "I know he's very good-looking, Jude, but you're mine ," he growls.

"Good-looking, huh?" I tease. "He's not my type, but it kinda sounds like you might be checking him out."

His hands drop to his sides and his eyes and mouth form a series of perfect circles. "Oh no, Jude." He's so earnest he almost looks childlike. "No. I would never. You're so gorgeous, and I love you so much, I'd never, ever—"

I cut him off with a hard kiss that seems to reset him.

"It's Robbie McGuire," I say, giving a surreptitious side-eye in the direction of big smile and broad shoulders.

Romeo's face is totally blank.

"Hockey player?" I prompt. Still blank. "Blinding rookie season?" More blank if such a thing's possible. "Just got traded by the Wranglers?"

"Wranglers? Do you mean jeans or cowboys ?" There's a tiny flicker of interest in his eyes.

"No." I sigh. "Not jeans or cowboys. Ice hockey . Skates. Pucks. Sticks. The New York Wranglers. You know, my team."

"Oh," he says, crinkling his nose. "Ice hockey. Ew."

As we gather our things and toss our napkins and paper plates, Romeo mutters, "He's lucky he's not your type, or I'd be forced to kick his ass. "

"Romeo!" I exclaim. "Don't you dare attempt to kick the ass of an NHL player!"

"What? You don't think I could take him? 'Cause I could. I'd kick his ass all right. Believe me, I'd kick his ass all the way across town."

"But, Romeo"—my shoulders shake with laughter—"you're a lover, not a fighter." He considers what I've said and eventually concedes, giving me a shrug and the slightest of up-nods. I lean down and nuzzle his neck. "The world's best, most passionate lover."

He turns into me, hands sliding around my sides and wrapping around my back. "You better get going," he groans, "or I'll drag you back home and have my way with you all over again."

I round the bend and head down our street. Leaves on an old red maple tree rustle overhead as I walk. Since Romeo moved to New York, leaves have turned, fallen, and sprouted again. I used to think all summers end. I was sure of it. I thought good things didn't last.

I was wrong .

Seasons have changed around us, but summer hasn't ended.

As I walk, a familiar figure comes into focus. A wisp of white with a smudge of pastel blue across the upper quadrant of an unforgettable face. He's on the step outside our building, waiting for me. There's a black dog at his heel, looking up at him in gooey adoration.

There's nothing unusual about this. It's happened every day since Romeo got here. Every single day, without exception, he waits on the step for me to come home after work. When it snows, he wears a puffer jacket and a red beanie. When it rains, he stands under a big umbrella. But every day, no matter the weather, he waits for me.

It may not seem like a big deal to some, and I'm not saying it's hugely newsworthy or anything like that, but when I see him waiting, every time, every day, my heart starts to pound and my feet leave the ground. I don't take a breath from the second I see him until he's in my arms.

He comes to me easily, movements graceful and fluid. Like the tide rising. Like night drawing in. Every day, Tiger jumps up on us as we embrace, barking loudly, and Romeo and I take turns telling him off.

When we've managed to calm Tiger, we head upstairs, and Romeo unlocks the door to our apartment. It feels like stepping into a Renaissance painting. A moody, sensual painting with muted colors and cracks in the paint. His things and my things have blended together. A perfect cocktail that smells like home and makes me happy.

I inhale deeply, taking it all in. "Mm, God, that smells good… Is that—"

"Chicken fajitas," he says, beaming.

The pile of pages has been neatly stacked for the first time in weeks and a single candle flickers in the space cleared on the dining table. A bottle of wine and two glasses have been set out. I turn to him and immediately notice something about him is different. There's a spark in his eyes. A secret.

"Are we celebrating something?" I ask.

He gives me a typical Romeo shrug, one that reaches inside me and shakes my spine gently. "It's no big deal," he says, holding a hand up to slow me. "It's early. It's not worth getting excited about…"

"Romeo!! For the love of God, what? Tell me!"

"Okay." He steadies his breathing. "So, I heard back from that agent today. You know, the one I really liked?"

I nod, suddenly unsure I can trust my voice. "And…?"

"And she's requested a full manuscript."

Within days of Romeo moving in, it became clear that "making notes" had graduated to full-fledged writing. He wrote all summer long, determined and unstoppable, typing late into the night and starting well before sunrise. After much begging, he handed me the first three chapters. From the first word, I was transported. His words in black and white had the same effect on me they always had when he spoke them. The same but different. Better. Clearer. The hallucinations they invoked were both terrifyingly vivid and unspeakably brilliant.

"This is it, Romeo," I cried. "This is what you're meant to do. This is what you were made for."

"But, Tiger," he said sweetly, "I was made to love you."

It turns out he's writing a series. Five interlinked books about mythical creatures and unlikely heroes. Winged beasts and real-life events. Tragedies and misunderstandings. Losing people and finding yourself. It's a story about magic and epic adventures, sure, but mostly, it's a story about love.

By the time school was due to start late last August, I'd convinced him he's writing a story that needs to be told.

He finished the first book recently, and I can hardly describe what it did to me when he placed the manuscript in my hands. I felt the weight of his words, a physical thing, and the lightness of the piece of his soul he imbibed it with. For the longest time, I just held it, looking down and reading the title over and over.

Infern o

"Don't get overexcited," he warns. "It's a long shot and a long road with no guarantees, you know that."

"Overexcited? Are you kidding me? This woman is about to read the best book of her whole goddamn life. Of course I'm overexcited!"

Romeo shakes his head and smiles tolerantly at me. "Oh, Jude, you only think that because I wrote you into the story."

He's wrong. You'll see. I know it. I can feel it in my chest. A certainty. A sure thing.

The only thing I've ever been more sure about is that I was put on this Earth to love Romeo.

I'm so sure, I have a ring in my pocket. I've been carrying it for months, and I already know what I'll have engraved on it. I'm tempted to give it to him every damn day, but I won't because the second I read the first page of Inferno , I decided to ask Romeo to marry me the day he gets offered a publishing deal.

That's how sure I am of Inferno .

I don't know what our wedding will be like. I mean, I know there won't be a dove or a butterfly in sight, but other than that, I don't really care. Romeo can have whatever he wants. The only thing I want is to spend the rest of my life with him. I have the honeymoon all planned out though. Don't tell him, but I'm taking him to Verona, Italy.

When we were in Florida recently, visiting my parents, I cracked and told my mom and dad my plan. My mom flapped her hands up and down at her sides like a chicken with something seriously wrong with it, and my dad pulled me in for a big hug and as he did it, I felt his chest heaving.

It was the second time I saw my dad cry.

When dinner is over and the dishwasher has been packed, Romeo and I curl up on the sofa. I'm on my back and he's lying between my legs with his head on my chest. When I breathe in, I'm hit by the unmistakable scent of old oak trees and faraway places, full circles, and the love of my life.

"How was your day, baby? How's your mind and how is your heart?" I ask him questions like these every day, and not just because I love the answer so much. Our journey back to each other was treacherous and hard. Both of us were injured, bruised, and beaten, and we hurt others to get here. Some wounds healed with a kiss, and others will take a long time to recover completely. Both of us acknowledge this. We talk about it often, checking in with each other and keeping communication lines open because we know all too well the destruction not doing so can cause. "How are you feeling, my Romeo?"

The solid mass of him shifts slightly and his cheek creases against my chest. He lets out a soft, easy sigh and says the same thing he said yesterday.

And the day before.

And the day before that.

"Whelmed."