“I prefer to think of it as aggressive reconnaissance,” I counter.
“You’re totally insane,” she replies.
“Probably.” I grin. “We’ll go over the proposal together this weekend, figure out how to present it.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Is that a work request or a personal one?”
I grin. “Both.”
She sighs. “Fine. But I’m ordering the takeout this time. Your taste in delivery food is offensive.”
“My taste in delivery food is efficient,” I retort.
“Plain chicken and steamed vegetables?” she exclaims. “That’s not efficient, that’s gross”
I kiss her properly then, not bothering to set the smart glass opaque. There’s no one around on a Friday night to see us anyway.
She melts into me the way she always does, her fingers curling into my shirt, her body pressing against mine.
When I pull back, her eyes are hungry.
“Take me home,” she whispers.
I do.
The weekend blurs together. I’m used to Saturdays and Sundays being extensions of work. More emails. More strategy sessions. More timespent alone in my penthouse pretending the silence doesn’t bother me.
Instead, I spend Saturday morning watching Bree make coffee in her tiny kitchen while wearing one of my shirts. I spend Saturday afternoon going through the proposal with her, arguing about word choices and legal frameworks while she sits cross-legged on her couch and I pace her small living room.
I spend Saturday night inside her, exploring all the ways to make her fall apart.
Sunday is more of the same. Work and sex and something that feels dangerously close to domesticity. She makes me eat actual meals. Real food with vegetables and flavor. I help her reorganize her filing system, which is already impeccable but could benefit from some digital redundancy.
“You’re such a control freak,” she says, watching me create backup folders on her laptop.
“I prefer comprehensive risk mitigation,” I reply.
“You prefer controlling everything because you’re terrified of uncertainty,” she counters.
She’s not wrong. But she says it without judgment. Like it’s just a fact about me she’s accepted, just like the way I’ve accepted that she stress-eats Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and cries at animal rescue videos.
Sunday night, I lie in her bed watching her sleep, and I think about the board meeting tomorrow. About Martin Hale’s smug face when I present a proposal that will cut his entire strategy off at the knees.
About how Bree won’t get credit. Not yet. Not publicly.
It sits in my gut like a poorly fitted prosthetic. Something that needs adjustment but requires time and care to fix properly.
I’ll make it right.
I have to.
I just hope she gives me enough time.
Monday morning,I arrive at the office at seven.
Bree arrives at eight thirty, back in professional mode. Structure navy blazer. That cream blouse I can’t stop staring at.
“I want you in the board meeting,” I tell her when she brings my morning coffee. “To take notes.”
