Jasmine
We are back in Seattle by early evening, but my heart and body stay behind on Whidbey Island. In that suite, to be precise.
The elevator rushes toward the penthouse as if to hurl me back into reality. I’ve ridden it countless times but it feels different. Small, as if my awareness of Nathan is its own entity, occupying it all.
He’s close enough that his sleeve brushes mine as the car hums upward. I can smell him over the clean, conditioned air—sweat, soap, and just a hint of my vanilla perfume clinging to him. Real or not, it feels like I’ve stamped him with myself.
I drifted to sleep in his arms last night. Only to be woken at dawn by his mouth on my neck and his hand between my legs, his voice hoarse, asking if I could take him again.
I said yes before my brain, and my body, caught up. It hurt like hell, but I begged him not to stop. I needed the pain in case the fleeting pleasure evaporated from memory. I needed the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, his guttural grunts as he took me raw, his roar as he climaxed.
I’d say yes again now, if we weren’t two floors from the penthouse and his phone wasn’t pressed to his ear.
He’s barely said a word since we left the island.
A crisis at the company he manages with Zayn has kept him on a call the whole time. I don’t know whether to be thankful the call removes the awkwardness of goodbye or resentful that it stole my chance at closure.
The storm blew itself clean away overnight. Now the sun is shining—the universe reminding me last night was a glitch, a temporary madness.
Halfway home, he pulled into my favorite drive-through, nodding at me to order breakfast while he stayed on the line. The thoughtfulness hurt more—because it was Nathan being kind as always.
“Sasha told me you took Jazz to some wedding reception,” Zayn’s voice cut in on the speaker just as I excused myself to use the bathroom. “Sounds like a big deal. Sorry for hogging your time.”
Like a masochist, I lingered by the open window, eager to hear my boss’s answer.
Nathan’s voice was flat, almost dismissive. “Wasn’t a big deal. We’re on our way back anyway.”
I stared out the window after returning, pretending interest in the skyline, swallowing the sob building in my chest.
The doors slide open and, for the first time in years, the penthouse doesn’t feel like the warm, welcoming space it’s been. Here, the boundaries between us are sharp.
Nathan steps out first, still talking, and I follow, my bag strap tight in my hand. He heads into the kitchen, finishes his call as I take off my shoes and slide into the house slippers. His phone disappears into his pocket just as footsteps sound from the hall.
Sophie runs out, a bright smile flashing. “How was the reception?”
I cross the room, fold myself into her hug, burying my face in her shoulder before Nathan can look at me.
Sophie smells like shampoo and home, the lavender-vanilla mix that’s wrapped around me since we were middle schoolers. Usually, it’s pure comfort.
Today, it’s edged with something sharp—my own secret pressed between us. Not shame but the ache of knowing I can’t tell her. Not without risking losing the one person who’s been my anchor all these years.
I’ll lose them both soon enough.
“It was fine. I straightened out things with Clive,” Nathan says, tone clipped, as if reminding us why he came. “I have to be at work.” A moment later, the front door clicks shut.
Sophie eases back, brows pulling together. “Jazz, honey… is everything okay? Did Dad do something he shouldn’t have? I’ve never seen you two so… awkward.”
I bite down hard on the sob clawing up, force myself to meet her eyes. “He was exactly what I needed, Soph. A perfect gentleman.”
Before she can read something in my face, I mumble about needing a shower and escape down the hall.
I’m bent awkwardly,fingers fumbling for the zipper of the summer dress I wore in the car, when a knock sounds at the door.
“Come in,” I call, tugging one strap down. I expect Sophie.
It’s Nathan. He’s shrugged off his jacket, and the metal-gray of his shirt makes his eyes glint.
Tenderness tugs at me. He looks tired—the kind of tired that makes me want to press my hand to his cheek and make himclose his eyes for five minutes. But he’s not mine to look after, is he?
