A smile touched his lips.
"We can convert some of it to storage if you prefer. There's no requirement to fill it."
"Good, because unless you're planning to fund a massive shopping spree, I don't own enough clothes to make a dent in this space." I ran my fingers along the empty rack.
"You do realize my wardrobe consists mainly of work clothes, jeans, and yoga pants, right? Nothing that belongs in..." I waved vaguely at his meticulously organized section, "whatever designer showroom this is."
He moved behind me, arms encircling my waist.
"Your clothes belong wherever you are. This is your home now, Savannah. Not a stage set you need to conform to."
The sentiment was perfect.
The problem was believing it when surrounded by the austere minimalism of his living space.
Every surface was pristine, uncluttered.
The kitchen gleamed with high-end appliances that looked unused. The living room featured furniture that was clearly chosen for its aesthetic appeal rather than comfort.
Even the bedding was a study in monochromatic precision—crisp white sheets with perfect hospital corners.
I turned in his arms, studying the face that had become the center of my universe.
"Did you actually live here before, or just maintain it as a very expensive hotel room?"
He laughed, the sound still rare enough to delight me. "That obvious?"
"Lucas, there isn't a single personal item in this entire penthouse except in your office. No photos. No mementos. Nothing that says 'a human being sleeps here' versus 'a corporation maintains this space for impression management.'"
His expression sobered slightly.
"I told you once, the public spaces were designed for impression. My office was the only place I truly lived."
"Well, that's about to change." I pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"I'm messy. I leave books open on furniture. I kick off my shoes wherever I happen to be standing. I collect ridiculous coffee mugs with terrible puns on them. Your perfect penthouse is about to get very human, very fast."
Something softened in his eyes—relief, perhaps, or anticipation. "I'm counting on it."
Three hours later, he might have been reconsidering that statement as my belongings began to transform his space.
Boxes of books that had no designated shelving. Colorful throws that clashed with his minimalist color scheme.
A collection of mismatched coffee mugs that looked absurd in his sleek kitchen cabinets. Family photos in frames that didn't coordinate with anything.
I watched him carefully as each new element disrupted the perfect harmony of his space, waiting for the moment his patience would snap. But he merely directed the movers, helped arrange furniture, and occasionally raised an eyebrow at particularly incongruous items before finding them a place.
"You're being very gracious about this invasion," I commented as we surveyed my extensive book collection that had now taken over an entire wall of the living room. "Ihalf expected you to hire a designer and have everything professionally integrated."
Lucas's mouth quirked. "I considered it."
"Of course you did." I bumped his shoulder with mine, something I'd never have dared do weeks ago. "Control freak."
"Reformed control freak," he corrected, pulling me against him. "I want to see you here, Savannah. Not a curated version that matches the décor. You."
The statement was perfect in its simplicity and acceptance. Yet I couldn't help wondering if the reality of sharing space—of having his meticulously ordered life disrupted by my more chaotic presence—would eventually wear on him.
If the novelty were to fade, it would be replaced by irritation at coffee rings on side tables and shoes left in hallways.
