Chapter 19"The Rooftop Between Us"

Charlie leaned against the stone railing of her rooftop hideaway, the cold of the evening settling around her. Her fingers curled around the sweating glass of iced coffee, condensation rolling down the sides as she took a slow sip.

Below, the world moved without her.

Sloan and Sicily were still on the shoreline, locked in an argument that had started heated and only grew colder by the second. From up here, Charlie could see the tension in their movements—the way Sloan kept running a hand through his hair, the way Sicily's arms flailed as she spat words at him like accusations.

She sighed, shifting her gaze toward the horizon.

Beyond the waves, beyond the dark stretch of the ocean, the lighthouse stood.

Its beam swept slowly across the water, steady, constant. Just like it always had been.

A soft ache settled in her chest.

"If you ever feel lost, just look for the light."

She let out a breath, closing her eyes for a moment. Hale's voice still echoed in her mind, even after all these years.

A memory flickered. Two kids, sitting on the cliffs, the lighthouse blinking in the distance.

"Do you think we'll always be like this?" she had asked, kicking her feet idly.

Hale had smiled, that easy, knowing grin that always made her feel like she was understood.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But if you ever feel lost… just look for the light, okay?"

She had laughed then, nudging him with her shoulder.

"You sound like an old man."

"Maybe I was born wise."

The memory was so clear, so sharp—it felt like she could reach out and touch it.

But that was a long time ago.

Hale had been her person before life had pulled them in different directions. Before things got complicated.

And now, the lighthouse was just… a reminder.

Not of him. Not really.

But of choices. Of what-ifs.

Of the way some people pass through your life and leave a mark so deep, you can't ever really scrub it out.

She opened her eyes, exhaling as she took another slow sip of coffee.

Below, the argument between Sloan and Sicily seemed to be nearing its end.

Sicily threw up her hands, her voice cutting through the night air. "You know what, Sloan? I'm done talking about this. Figure yourself out."

Then she turned, storming off toward the resort, her silhouette swallowed by the darkened pathway.

Sloan stood there, unmoving.

Charlie should have turned away. Should have retreated back inside her sanctuary, let whatever just happened stay down there.

But instead, she stayed.

And when Sloan's gaze finally lifted—he found her.

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Even from this distance, she could feel it. That pull. That quiet tension that had been lingering between them since the moment he arrived at her resort.

Sloan tilted his head slightly, as if trying to read her.

Trying to understand.

She didn't move.

Didn't look away.

And neither did he.

The ocean crashed behind him, the wind tugging at his clothes, at his hair. But he stood firm, unwavering.

Then, after a long, charged moment… he took a step forward.

Charlie's grip on her glass tightened.

Sloan had never been one to hesitate. Never been the type to overthink.

And yet, right now, it felt like he was making a decision.

One she wasn't sure she was ready for.

Another step.

And another.

He was walking toward the resort now, toward the pathways that would lead him closer—

Closer to her.

Charlie swallowed, feeling something in her stomach coil tight.

She knew that if she stayed here, if she let this moment unfold, he'd find a way to her.

He'd push, just like he always did.

And the problem was… she wasn't sure she'd stop him.

The wind picked up, cool against her skin.

Charlie set her glass down.

Then, just as Sloan disappeared up the pathway—

She turned and stepped inside, shutting the rooftop door behind her.

Charlie shut the rooftop door behind her, her heartbeat a steady drum against her ribs.

But she could still feel him coming.

The air inside her private escape was thicker now, charged with something unspoken. She pressed her palms against the cool glass of the window, watching as Sloan's shadowed figure cut through the pathways below, moving with that same determined stride he always had.

Damn him.

Damn the way he always walked like he already owned the place. Like the world would just bend for him, like he could just find his way in.

She exhaled, pushing away from the window.

No.

Not tonight.

She moved further inside, past the warm glow of the hidden sanctuary she had built for herself. The shelves of paint, the half-finished canvases stacked in the corner. The large bathtub she never used, the glass-walled shower she never let anyone see. This was her space.

And she wasn't about to let Sloan fucking Shaw step into it.

A soft knock.

Charlie froze.

Not at the sound of it.

But at the fact that he didn't just barge in.

Another beat of silence stretched out, thick and heavy.

Then his voice—low, rough. Right there.

"Charlie."

Goddamn him.

She closed her eyes, fingers curling at her sides.

She could ignore him. She could pretend she wasn't here.

Or she could open that door.

And ruin everything.

Her breath came slow. Measured.

And then—

Another knock. This time, softer.

"You always run first." His voice was quiet. "Always shutting me out." A pause. "Why?"

Charlie's pulse skipped.

And just like that—she was back in the past.

A different door. A different night. A different boy.

"Why do you always run?" Hale had once asked her, all those years ago, standing by the lighthouse.

And she had never answered.

Never let herself think about why.

Charlie's fingers brushed against the door handle.

Her heartbeat ached between her ribs.

She shouldn't.

She really, really shouldn't.

But—

She turned the handle.

And the door cracked open.

Sloan was standing there.

Closer than she expected. Too close.

His gaze searched hers, unreadable. But his jaw was tight, his shoulders tense. Like he had questions he wasn't sure he wanted answers to.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them moved.

The world outside was quiet now, the argument, the guests, the ocean—all just a distant hum.

It was just them.

And maybe—that was the problem.

Sloan exhaled, his voice lower this time.

"Tell me to leave."

Charlie's throat tightened.

Because she should.

She should tell him to turn around, to walk away, to stop whatever this was before it went too far.

But her grip on the door didn't tighten.

And her lips didn't move.

She just stared at him, standing there in the threshold—a storm waiting to happen.

And she?

She wasn't sure if she wanted to stop it.