VALENTINES
The days they had spent in New York had been easy in a way his life rarely allowed. From long dinners that stretched without interruption to quiet walks where no one watched too closely and no one expected anything from him (or her), it had felt like stepping outside of the constant world he lived in. There had been no Rutherford business interrupting dinner, no Brixton lads' calls dragging him back into familiar messes. Just Kathleenâs hand in his, just time that belonged to them only.
Vidal had thought about how he wanted to do this for much longer than he cared to admit. Not the extravagance of it - that part was simple. Money solved even the most logistical questions. What he had considered was the meaning. His entire life had been built on planning for others. Protecting streets that did not always want his protection. Making decisions that kept other menâs âempiresâ intact. After he had lost his entire family in that horrific car crash, he âlearned that survival depended on control and dedication. Brixton became his family because he refused to be alone and let others feel alone. The Rutherfords became his backers because power meant safety. None of it had been accidental. Every choice Vidal had ever made was necessary for the survival of his people.Â
What he had not planned for was her.
It had been four years since Kathleen walked into his life, since she had shifted something fundamental in him without ever even thinking it. She did not try to soften him. She did not ask him to become someone else. Kathleen didnât just tiptoe into his life. She fucking stormed in, all smiles with her savage little mouth, making a sport of knocking him down a peg, refused his bullshit, and made a habit out of denying him the last word. She was unapologetically herself from the start, and without even trying, she turned his whole bloody life upside down. And over time, her presence stopped feeling like something temporary. It began to feel inevitable.Â
Luca had sealed it in ways Vidal could rarely put into words. The first time the boy fell asleep against him on the sofa, Vidal âunderstood that the idea of leaving was no longer an option.Â
It was why he chose the rooftop.
When the lift doors opened onto the top floor of The Plaza Hotel, the cold February air met them immediately. The snow was falling steadily, light enough to settle gently over the skyline without turning the night turning out in a blizzard. The rooftop had been prepared hours before they arrived. White roses lined a clear path toward the centre, candles protected in glass so the wind could not extinguish them, heating lamps placed carefully so the cold did not ruin the atmosphere he was aiming for. Nothing excessive, just what he thought sheâd like.
Vidal did not rush her forward. Instead, he stood there for a moment, his hand resting on her back, grounding himself more than guiding her. He was a confident man, always had been, but in this moment? Even standing in front of a ticking bomb would have been easier. But this was something he had chosen to do, something he had wanted to do for the longest time.Â
He was nervous because he hoped for a future.Â
He began walking slowly, leading her along the path of roses toward the centre where the candles burned and the skyline opened up completely. When they reached the centre, he stopped and turned her, just enough so sheâd be facing him.
He never let go of her hand and, for a moment, the man simply looked at her.Â
âItâs bloody cold.â He muttered, a corner of his mouth lifting in a smile as he freed one hand to brush a snowflake from her hair. âIâm not really good with words, innit?â
@kathleenzhao
