There were still days I caught myself watching him—like I was trying to memorize the way he moved, the sound of his voice, the quiet ways he filled a room. Not because I thought he’d leave—those fears had finally stopped echoing—but because I couldn’t believe how far we’de.

    He hummed Marvin Gaye while he made coffee in the mornings. The sound wrapped around the apartment like sunlight filtering through sheer curtains—soft, golden, just a little bit crooked.

    He still drank his coffee too sweet, loading it up with sugar like it was dessert. I still teased him about it.

    Sometimes I wore his shirt—not to seduce him, not to make a point, just because it smelled like him. Because it felt like home.

    We talked about where to live, and we decided that we’d stay in the Quarter for a while, and he’d rent his ce out. A lot of his projects were here, and I was busier than ever with Aire Noire.

    After the buzz from the trunk show and the Martha Stewart Weddings endorsement, hotels in New Orleans reached out—asking if I’d consider curating a disy case for their lobby. ss-fronted instations filled with hand-picked pieces that whispered something about the soul of the city and changed seasonally like an art exhibit.

    I was working on my first one, ensembles for performers, guests, and dreamers—lingerie as art, as story, as experience.

    Very New Orleans.

    “It’ll be moody and theatrical,” I told Gage.

    “Just the way you like it, with velvets and silk, light like candle smoke.” He understood me.

    “I want people to feel that Aire Noire is a ce you cane and be yourself—and maybe walk out bolder, brighter.”

    I was terrified to have my brand around the Quarter. What if I messed it up?

    But Gage held my hand through it, helped me with my ns, never once questioning if I could pull it off.

    Gage was building something, too. Not just buildings, though he was restoring a row of Creole cottages in Treme. But more than that, he was mentoring.

    Two young builders shadowed him now. Loyal apprentices. One, barely neen and fresh out of high school. The other, a woman from Baton Rouge working toward her license.

    “They’ve got the vision,” he told me. “They just needed someone to believe in it.”

    We weren’t married.

    Not yet.

    But we were nning a trip to Paris. To find the little boutique I’d once seen in a photo and fallen in love with—the one that sparked Aire Noire’s naughty disys.

    I used to imagine going alone. Now, I couldn’t picture walking those cobblestone streets without his hand in mine.

    We spent some evenings at home alone, sometimes we went to Frenchmen Street, to Maison, to listen to Aurelie and others. Sometimes we had smash burgers at Marie’s or drinks at R-Bar. Jonah had be a regr in our group of friends.

    “Not too fancy for the little people, enh?” Aurelie teased him.

    For Aurelie’s birthday, I threw her a party at R-Bar, and had a birthday cake made that looked like either a guitar or a mutant penis, take your pick.

    I leaned into Gage as he held me close, my back against his chest, and we watched Aurelie, tipsy and radiant. Kadisha was dancing barefoot with some tourist. Our other friends scattered around the bar.

    Jonah camete with a present for Aurelie that made her scream with joy. He’d told her, he was getting her a gig at Preservation Hall, something she’d been aspiring for.

    “She looks happy.” Gage brushed his lips against my ear, swaying with the ssic jazz tunes the DJ was ying.

    Jonah made his way over, kissed my cheek, and shook Gage’s hand like they’d been on the same team all along. We talked about food and music and his new speakeasy opening at the end of the year.

    “Can youe by and look at this building I’m thinking of buying off Audubon?” he’d asked when he purchased the ce a few months ago. Gage had readily agreed.

    Jonah asked me to help style the staff uniforms at his speakeasy, which had been a fun project.

    We were friends, and it wasn’t awkward or weird. It was just…New Orleans.

    Gage and I leftte, a little tipsy, as we strolled down Royal Street, hand-in-hand.

    We walked past tour guides telling ghost stories, horse carriages carrying tourists, and musicians singing.

    Laughter spilled out of bars and restaurants.

    Gage pulled me close, his arm warm around my shoulders. “You happy, baby?”

    I looked up at him—at this man who once ran from love and now held it like a sacred thing. “Yeah, Gage, I’m happy.”

    We were not perfect, not polished, but we were happy…together in New Orleans.

    Laissez les bon temps rouler.

    Let the good times roll.