Page 51 of Depths of Desire
Then, finally, I checked my phone.
Lennox had sent me a meme. Something stupid. A low-res screencap of two penguins holding flippers with the caption: “Me and the guy I made eye contact with for 0.5 seconds at Trader Joe’s.”
I stared at it for a second.
Then I laughed out loud. Just once. One honest, full-bodied, crack-through-the-silence laugh that echoed against the tiles and the cupboards.
God, he was ridiculous.
I opened the reply box, fingers poised. I started typing twice before deleting both drafts. Finally, I let myself text what I actually wanted to say.
Me:What are you doing tonight?
I didn’t pace. I didn’t hover over the screen like I usually did. I just waited, leaning against the counter, watching the sky outside turn lavender behind the buildings. And then the three dots appeared.
Lennox:Depends. Am I putting on pants or taking them off?
I huffed through my nose and shook my head. My fingers typed before I could second-guess it.
Me:Neither. Come over. Just hang out. Might make you a breakfast sandwich I never got from you.
The dots danced.
Lennox:I’ll take it on a technicality. Sandwich me.
Me:I’ll be here.
I placed the phone on the counter like it was something delicate. My heart was thudding again, but not the same way it had been in the pool. This wasn’t about time or performance or pushing through the ache. This was a different kind of burn. A softer one. A warmer one.
I turned to the kitchen, scanned it with a critical eye. Cleared the table. Wiped down the counters. I wasn’t trying to impress him. Not exactly. I just…wanted him to feel comfortable. Wanted him to feel wanted.
The fridge held the essentials. I pulled out eggs, bread, something resembling turkey bacon, and cheese. Enough for a passable sandwich if nothing else.
Then I moved to the bathroom, brushing my hair back and patting my face dry again. Changed into a fresh hoodie—one without chlorine stains—and black joggers that didn’t look like I’d slept in them. I looked in the mirror and pulled a face at myself.
Still me. But maybe not the same me.
Maybe this version knew how to open the door when someone knocked. Maybe this one didn’t need to be perfect to be worth coming home to.
I stepped back out into the kitchen just as my phone lit up again on the counter.
Lennox: On my way. Don’t burn the eggs.
Too late. I was already smiling.
FOURTEEN
LENNOX
The rooftop smelledlike tar and spring rain.
That mix of something aged and something new. The kind of scent that clung to the night in a city like this—half ghosts, half rebirth. Like time itself was sticky up here, holding on just a little longer before letting the seasons change.
I lay on my back, hoodie pulled tight around me, elbows folded behind my head. The air was cool and smelled faintly of wet pavement, warming steel, and that herbal sweetness from the thermos beside us. Peppermint and chamomile, his idea. Calming, supposedly. It had worked more than it should’ve.
The sky stretched wide above us, pale with scattered stars, not the kind you saw in textbooks or movies, but real city stars, half-lit, half-lost, fighting their way through the light pollution. Their edges blurred with the faint orange haze that lived over Chicago’s skyline like a restless halo. It wasn’t perfect. But it was beautiful anyway.
Oliver lay next to me, arms tucked behind his head, too, the thermos between us like a silent chaperone. Our heads were close—so close I could feel the echo of his breath between words—but not quite touching. That felt like the rule tonight. Close, but not pushing.
