CHAPTER 75
"Six hours in a Greyhound with no air conditioning?" I roll my eyes as I lean back into the rusted railing of the rooftop. "That's not romance, Zacks. That's a death wish."
Tony shrugs beside me, the infuriating half-smirk playing on his lips. "That's love, Lanka. You should know. You're the one who made me believe in it."
I roll my eyes, but my chest is a traitor—tight and warm, like the night air wrapping itself around us. The city skyline stretches out in front of us, lit up like a constellation that suddenly makes sense.
"I don't want to be the boy you survived," he says out of nowhere, voice low and gravelly. "I want to be the man who shows up."
The words cut through the air. Not sharp. Just real. And weighted.
My breath catches.
We're on the roof of my dorm, backs against the old brick wall, two duffel bags between us—mine, packed for New York; his, packed with some unspoken promise I haven't unzipped yet.
For a time, neither of us speaks. The silence isn't awkward anymore. It's just ours.
"I understand that if I let go, everything would fall apart," I say finally, staring up at the stars. "That if I relaxed my hold so much—on the past, on guilt, on anger—I'd vanish."
"You didn't vanish," he says. "You exploded."
I glance over at him, eyebrow raised.
"He laughs. "Like a goddamn firework."
There's reassurance in his presence now. Still dark. Still rimmed with shadows. But not dangerous anymore. Tony is a tempest I learned how to ride out—and now, oddly, he's the peace.
"I'm scared," I admit, tracing the metal railing with my finger. "That I'll lose myself in the noise of that city. That Queens will require me to be. more than I am."
You are more," he says, without hesitation. "You've always been more. The world's just catching up late."
I look at him, really look. The bruises from the fight with Wells have mostly healed. The break in his pride from the Legacy fiasco still lingers, but he wears it now like a badge. He's becoming.
"I don't want you to put your life on hold for me," I whisper.
He leans in. "I'm not putting anything on hold. I'm taking my own path. This—" He gestures between us. "—it's not a detour. It's part of it."
I swallow. Hard.
We're silent again. A gentle breeze cuts through the summer heat, the city beneath us humming like a lullaby.
"I got you something," I say softly, rummaging through my bag.
He raises an eyebrow, feigning suspicion. "If it's a camera, I swear—"
"Shut up."
I pull out the small, worn shutter release—my father's. The brass button is polished smooth from years of handling, the cord still twisted as though it holds a memory of his fingers.
Tony's brow furrows as I place it in his palm.
"This was my dad's," I say. "He used it for almost every significant photograph. He'd always say, 'A second of hesitation costs a truth.'"
Tony stares at it, impressed.
I want you to have it," I say. "Not because I imagine you'll become some award-winning photographer—but when you witness something real, I want you to know you deserve to take it."
His throat gets caught on something thick, something quiet. He closes his fingers around the shutter button and nods once, earnestly.
Then he dips into his own pocket.
"This isn't as sentimental," he says. "But it's us.".
It's a silver pendant on a simple chain, small enough to be worn under a shirt, generic enough to not scream meaning. But when I flip it over, I see numbers etched into the back.
"Coordinates?" I ask.
"To this rooftop. The night you threatened to break my nose with a tripod."
I laugh, breathless. "You deserved it."
He smiles. "I know.
I clench the pendant like it's a compass, warm from his fingertips. "It's perfect."
"So are you," he murmurs.
I look up at him, heart racing a little too fast.
"We're not saying goodbye," I whisper.
"No." His hand seeks mine. "We're just changing zip codes."
I rest my head on his shoulder. "Promise you'll still come to me? Even when it's messy. Even when it doesn't feel like a rooftop fairytale."
"Especially then."
"And what if you fall in love with someone else's skyline?"
He pulls back, holds my face in his hands, and kisses me—not desperately, not like it's the last time, but like it's the first time we're both here.
When he pulls back, he says, "There's only one city that made me feel like I mattered. And it was the one inside your eyes."
God.
I kiss him again because nothing could beat that.
When we break apart, the stars above twinkle like they're clapping.
We stay another hour. Talking. Not talking. Planning the weekends he'll visit me. Joking about how I'll be too famous to take his calls. Promising we won't let distance diminish what we've reawakened.
And through all of this, I am not afraid.
The next morning, we go downstairs from the rooftop together. He carries my heaviest luggage. I clutch the coordinates to my chest.
He walks me to the train station and kisses my forehead as I'm getting onto the platform.
"I'll see you Friday," he tells me.
I raise an eyebrow. "You mean the Friday after I get settled?"
"No." He grins. "This Friday. You think I'm going to miss your first week?"
I stifle a grin. "Six hours on a bus, huh?"
He grins. "For you? I'd even fly coach."
I shake my head, laughing. Then I turn and move forward into my future.
Not alone.