Page 124 of Role Play
“Wasn’t going to argue,” I mumble, resting my head against his shoulder. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat is comforting, and I find myself relaxing completely in his embrace.
His arms around me feel like sanctuary—strong, secure, safe. The night has taken on a dreamlike quality, the haunted house and its manufactured fears seeming distant and inconsequential compared to the raw, real emotion between us.
As he carries me down the path, away from the haunted mansion and back toward reality, I can’t help but reflect on what just happened. On what it means for us. On the sharp distinction between the terror I was meant to feel in that house versus the exhilaration I experienced in his arms.
“You know,” I say into the comfortable silence, “I don’t think I could pull off writing dark romance. But I definitely want to see this version of you again sometime. In the bedroom.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath my ear. “Sora, you can have any version of me you want, whenever you want it.”
The implication hangs in the air—versionsoracts? Moments that won’t last? Promises he can’t keep? I’m too tired to offer a coherent response right now, so I let it go.
The path winds downhill, illuminated now by the full moon that has emerged from behind the clouds. The mansion looms behind us, its windows like watchful eyes tracking our departure. But its manufactured horrors hold no power over me now—it looks more comical than anything, me leaving with exactly what I came here for. A revelation.
Forrest’s car comes into view, a sleek SUV rental parked at the base of the hill. He shifts me carefully in his arms to reach his keys, but doesn’t put me down until he’s opened the passenger door and can gently place me on the seat.
“I’m not made of glass, you know,” I say as he buckles my seat belt for me, treating me with exaggerated care. “I won’t break.”
“I know,” he says, brushing the wayward hair from my face. “Miss Independent, tough-as-nails, hangs-your-own-moon.” He smiles at me sweetly. “I know you can take care of yourself. But I like to pretend you need me.”
I do need you.I think it; I dare not say it.
He circles to the driver’s side, slides in beside me, and starts the engine. As we pull away from Hellfire Manor, I reach across the console to take his hand, lacing my fingers through his.
For once, I’m not overthinking. I’m not planning or projecting or anticipating failure. I’m just here, in his car, feelingthe cool night air from the vents on my face and the warmth of his hand in mine.
And for now, it feels like,The End.
chapter 26
Sora
The bitter chill of late fall seeps through the brownstone windows. The last few withered leaves skitter across the city sidewalks, as the frost-dust begins to take over the concrete.
I’ve always loved this transitional time in New York—when autumn reluctantly surrenders to winter, when the city wraps itself in twinkle lights and promises of snow. The air carries the specific perfume of change: decaying leaves, chimney smoke, and that indefinable edge that whispers of holidays nearing.
I wrap my cardigan tighter around myself, the soft wool inadequate against the growing cold outside. But the brownstone feels warmer than it ever has before, which has nothing to do with the electric fireplace. It’s something else, something I’m still getting used to—the sound of small feet patting across hardwood floors, a little girl’s laughter echoing in spaces that used to be meaningless. Over the past few weeks, Dakota has made this house into a home.
The front door opens with a decisive thud, followed by the telltale rustling of paper grocery bags. Dakota’s excited squeal echoes through the house as she abandons her coloring book onthe coffee table and dashes toward the entryway, her socked feet slipping slightly on the polished wood.
“Daddy’s home!” she chirps, her voice pitched high with excitement.
I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, breathing in the comforting vanilla scent of the cookie dough I’ve started prepping, and follow her at a more measured pace. My heart does that ridiculous little flutter it always does now when Forrest comes home.Home.Was this ever really a home before Forrest and Dakota invaded in the best way possible?
Taking in the sight of Forrest juggling several overstuffed paper bags while Dakota tugs at his jacket, I can’t help but smile. His dark hair is windblown, cheeks flushed from the chill outside, and there’s that crooked half-smile that still makes my stomach perform gymnastic routines that would score ten out of ten with Olympic judges.
“Let me help,” I offer, stepping forward to relieve him of a bag that looks dangerously close to tearing, the paper already damp at the corners from the light drizzle outside. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and the jolt that courses through me is anything but accidental. Three weeks of crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and still every touch feels electric.
“Did you get everything on the list?” I ask, peering into the bag I’ve claimed, catching whiffs of chocolate and sugar and possibility. “Even the mini M&M’s and toffee bits?”
“No, I completely ignored your detailed, color-coded, alphabetized shopping list and just grabbed whatever shiny objects caught my attention,” he deadpans, shaking snowflakes from his hair like a retriever coming in from a frigid pond.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re wildly exaggerating.”
“Not wildly,” he answers, setting the remaining bags on the kitchen counter with a satisfying thud. I may have listed what I wanted, and then two to three alternates per each ingredient,in case the local bodega was out. “And yes, I got your twelve different kinds of sugar. And the pretzel pieces, and the three types of chocolate chips, an assortment of candy, and something called ‘candy melts’ which seems like it’s more chocolate.”
I find myself watching Dakota as she eagerly inspects the grocery bags, her face a picture of childhood excitement. It strikes me suddenly, how full her early memories will be. How present Forrest is in her life, despite everything else.
“You know,” I say, keeping my voice light, though the thought feels heavy, “Dakota is so lucky.”
