Page 146 of Celestial Combat

He opened the book carefully. “A collection of traditional poems.”

The bookstore lights were dim, casting soft pools of glow around us, as he began reciting one of the poems.

“In this world

love has no color –

yet how deeply

my body

is stained by yours.

– Izumi Shikibu”

He looked up at me, dark eyes reflecting intense emotion.

I leaned forward, dropping my body into his. “That’s beautiful.”

He closed the book gently and put it back, still holding my gaze. “I thought… You might like that one.”

“I do. You picked aforbidden lovepoem… For me?”

He didn’t nod. But his eyes held mine. And in them, I felt every word he wasn’tsaying.

I reached out and lightly traced the line under his jaw. “That’s pretty romantic.”

He smirked, then spoke after a beat.“Thank you for letting me read to you.”

I leaned into his arms and whispered back, “Thank you for the poem.”

He captured my bottom lip between his.

The afternoon light in the tea house was soft and honeyed, filtering through rice-paper screens and casting pale squares across the low wooden tables. Zane and I sat on thin tatami cushions, the cups of matcha between us. We stayed for a while, talking and getting to know each other on a more personal and genuine level. Who we were and what we did before we met earlier in the summer. What were our goals and what we wanted to achieve. What we were working on at the moment.

An hour later, my cheeks hurt from smiling and talking so much.

“Ready?” He asked quietly.

I smiled, nodding.

We stood carefully, folding our cushions behind us, and stepped out into the crisp fall air. The city buzzed around us, but stepping into Chinatown, the noise seemed to soften – lanterns swayed overhead, their red light pooling on the sidewalks. We ducked into a small bao stall, and the owner handed us two warm buns wrapped in paper.

Zane got me a boba tea from a nearby vendor – that we ended up sharing together as we walked back home to Brooklyn. We wound through main streets, hand-in-hand, past SoHo’s galleries, the pavement damp from an afternoon drizzle.

As we neared Canal Street, a lone saxophonist played beneath a bright red awning. The notes were smoky and low all at once – perfect for this moment. Zane slipped a crisp hundred-dollar bill into my hand and I smiled, loving that he read my mind.

I strode forward, sliding the bill into the half-open case. The musician nodded his thanks and launched into a joyful riff. I reached back and took Zane’s hand, smiling at him, and dancing softly to the music. Zane watched me, a soft grin spreading across his face.

We walked on, side by side, following the glow of streetlights into the early evening. SoHo’s gold lights eventually gave way to the Brooklyn Bridge, and through it all we stayed hand-in-hand, never needing to say a word.

The city carried on around us, busy and big, but right there – beneath the glow of street lamps and music and soft laughter – we had our quiet moment all our own.

The loft smelled like garlic butter, seared steak, and roasted vegetables. Warmth hugged every corner of the open space, even though it was November outside. Zane had the heat turned up, and the floor-to-ceiling windows wore a golden tint from Brooklyn’s night skyline, and stretched wide across the hardwood.

I stood by the stove in one of his oversized tees, bare legs and wool socks, whisking the mushroom sauce while jazz played low from the speakers. The pan sizzled as I poured in a splash of cream, and the scent instantly deepened – earthy, rich, smooth.

Behind me, Zane stood shirtless at the other stove, flipping the thin-cut Wagyu steaks with precise control. His back flexed as he moved, tattoos shifting over his shoulder blades, heat from the pan steaming up toward his jaw. He glanced back at me and smirked. “You watching me or the steak?”

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