Page 101 of Before Dawn

Then, the moment his footsteps faded, I collapsed onto the couch, limbs flailing as I let out a silent scream.

“Oh my god.” I slapped my hands over my face, legs kicking at the cushions. “Did that just happen?”

I barely knew how to process it—the concert, the kiss,him fixing my bonnet.The way he’d looked at me. The way he’d felt.

Rolling onto my back, I let out a breathless laugh. “This is real, right?” I whispered, half-expecting the walls to answer.

Instead, excitement pulsed through me, lighting up every nerve. My hands tangled in my hair as I grinned at the ceiling.

“What the hell, Abigail?”

But deep down, I already knew that this was only the beginning.

Warning

This chapter contains mild mentions of sensitive topics. Please check the content warnings for potential triggers. Your well-being matters, so take care while reading.

Chapter Twenty-two

Abigail-Ann

“To love is to recognize yourself in another.”

~ Eckhart Tolle

After rescheduling our Coney Island date to cover an extra shift, I thought the night was lost. But Mikkel had other plans.

He showed up after my shift, grinning like he’d been waiting for this all day, and brought me to the High Line. Under the hum of the city, it felt like we existed in our own little world. The scent of burgers drifted in the air as we settled onto the grass, our food between us. The sky wasn’t a perfect, cinematic expanse of stars, but it didn’t have to be.

It was ours.

Lying back, he pulled me close, his arm settling around my shoulders like it belonged there. With effortless precision, he adjusted the telescope,his voice low and sure as he traced constellations above us. I wasn’t looking at the stars, though.

I was looking at him.

At the quiet way he saw me.

At the way he felt like certainty in a world where nothing had ever been guaranteed.

At the way he made me feel safe. Cherished. Happy.

And then there was the way he kissed me.

Not just a kiss—something deeper. Something that made my breath catch and my body hum. His lips pressed against mine with a slow, aching intensity, like he was memorizing me. Like he wanted me to feel what he couldn’t put into words.

For so long, I thought intimacy and sex were inseparable. That touch had to come with expectation. But with Mikkel, it was different.

When he reached for my hand, he didn’t take it—he brushed his fingers against mine, waiting. When I curled my fingers around his, he traced slow, lazy circles on my skin. And I realized then—intimacy wasn’t just about passion.

It was this. The quiet moments. The way he paid attention, how he never asked for more than I was ready to give. His touch spoke its own language—one I was only just beginning to understand.

And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to learn.

In the days that followed, we fell into an easy, intoxicating rhythm of closeness. Every moment with him felt like slipping into something warm and familiar, like my heart had known him long before my mind had caught up.

Then, one afternoon, before heading to an interview, he came over to install the extra locks on my door—something he insisted on doing himself.

I sat nearby, watching him work. His brows furrowed in focus, his hands sure and steady. Shirtless.

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