Real Enough to Feel

The penthouse was quiet, save for the hum of the city below and the unspoken words hanging between them. Cora sat cross-legged on the couch, still in her emerald gown, while Jace stood by the window, his tie discarded and sleeves rolled up. The gala's chaos felt miles away, but the charge in the air was sharper than ever.

"Tacos are on the way," Jace said, breaking the silence as he set his phone down. "Twenty minutes."

Cora smirked, twisting a loose strand of hair around her finger. "Twenty minutes? That's a lot of time to kill, Hart."

Jace turned, his gaze darkening. "Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe," Cora said, standing slowly. The dress slithered around her legs as she closed the distance between them. "What're you gonna do about it?"

Jace's eyes tracked her movement, his voice rough. "You're playing a dangerous game."

"Says the man who married me in Vegas," Cora shot back, stopping just inches from him.

Jace's hand found her waist, pulling her closer. "Biggest mistake of my life."

Cora's breath hitched. "Regrets?"

"Not a single one."

This time, there were no alarms, no brothers, no Clara. Just Jace's mouth on hers, hungry and deliberate, and Cora's hands fisted in his shirt like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world. It wasn't like Vegas—no tequila blurring the edges, no neon lights masking their hesitation. This was clear-eyed and aching, and it terrified her.

Jace walked her backward until her knees hit the couch. Cora tugged at his shirt, buttons scattering like confetti. "You owe me a new shirt," he muttered against her neck.

"Add it to my tab," Cora gasped as his teeth grazed her collarbone.

Somehow, they made it to the bedroom, leaving a trail of fabric and half-hearted apologies to the floor. Cora's dress pooled like melted jade, and Jace's belt buckle clattered against the wall. When he lifted her onto the bed, she laughed—a breathless, nervous sound.

"What?" Jace paused, his forehead pressed to hers.

"Nothing," Cora said, her cheeks flushing. "Just… you're staring."

Jace brushed a thumb over her cheekbone. "You're beautiful. Let me stare."

Cora's throat tightened. No one had ever said that to her like it was a fact, like gravity or sunrise. Not as a line, not as a joke. Just… true.

She pulled him down, kissing him to hide the way her eyes stung.

It wasn't perfect. Cora's elbow knocked the lamp sideways, plunging the room into darkness. Jace tripped over his own shoes trying to kick them off. At one point, they both froze when Cora's stomach growled loudly.

"Priorities," Jace deadpanned. "Tacos first?"

Cora yanked him back. "After."

But when they finally came together, it was nothing like Vegas. No rushed, sloppy kisses or fumbling in the dark. This was slow, deliberate, a conversation without words. Jace's hands mapped her skin like he was memorizing it, and Cora's nails scored his back in a language they both understood.

When it was over, they lay tangled in the sheets, sweat-damp and breathless. Cora's head rested on Jace's chest, his heartbeat a steady drum under her ear.

"So," Jace said, tracing idle circles on her shoulder. "Still think this is fake?"

Cora snorted. "Fake doesn't make you sweat like that."

Jace laughed, the sound rumbling through her. "Fair point."

The tacos arrived forty minutes late. Jace pulled on sweatpants to answer the door, returning with a grease-stained bag and a smirk.

"You're kidding," Cora said, sitting up as he dumped the contents onto the bed.

"Chorizo, carnitas, and…" Jace squinted at a scribbled label. "Something called 'The Habanero Reaper.'"

"That's yours," Cora said, snagging a carnitas taco.

They ate in messy, comfortable silence, salsa dripping onto the sheets. At one point, Jace tried to steal a bite of hers, and Cora retaliated by wiping her hands on his chest.

"Real mature," Jace said, flicking a crumb at her.

"Says the guy with queso in his hair," Cora shot back.

Jace reached up, felt the glob of cheese, and groaned. "You're a menace."

"Your menace," Cora said without thinking.

The room went still. Jace set his taco down, his gaze intent. "Say that again."

Cora's pulse thudded. "Your menace."

Jace kissed her then, slow and sweet, tasting like lime and hot sauce. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed her lower lip. "Mine."

Later, when the tacos were gone and the city lights blurred into dawn, Cora traced the scar on Jace's shoulder—a thin white line she'd never noticed before.

"How'd you get this?" she asked.

Jace glanced down. "Skiing accident. I was twelve and thought I could jump a ramp made of trash cans."

Cora grinned. "Did you stick the landing?"

"Broke my collarbone," Jace said, laughing. "Worth it."

Cora propped herself up on an elbow. "Tell me something else. Something real."

Jace's smile faded. He was quiet for a long moment. "I hate thunderstorms. Like, full-on childhood fear. I still sleep with the lights on if there's lightning."

Cora blinked. "Seriously?"

"Your turn," Jace said, poking her side. "Something real."

Cora chewed her lip. "I… I failed art school. Twice. My dad doesn't know. Thinks I dropped out to 'find myself.'"

Jace's brow furrowed. "Why'd you fail?"

"Because I kept painting what I wanted," Cora said, her voice small. "Not what they told me to."

Jace cupped her face, his touch firm. "Their loss."

Cora kissed him, because words felt too flimsy for the ache in her chest.

Sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting stripes across the bed. Cora woke to Jace's arm slung over her waist, his breath warm on her neck. She'd half-expected regret to hit her like a hangover, but all she felt was a quiet, terrifying certainty.

Jace stirred, his voice gravelly with sleep. "You're thinking too loud."

"Just wondering how we're gonna handle this," Cora said, gesturing between them.

Jace pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "We don't have to handle anything."

"Your dad. My brothers. The press—"

Jace rolled her onto her back, silencing her with a kiss. "Today, it's just us."

Cora arched an eyebrow. "Us?"

Jace smiled, softer than she'd ever seen him. "Yeah. Us."

They didn't have answers. The world outside was still messy, still loud, still full of Claras and PIs and expectations. But here, in this tangled, taco-scented bed, Cora let herself believe that "us" was enough.