"I'm not shy … just hungry." As if on cue, my stomach growls.
He grins. "Room service it is."
An hour later, we're dressed and finishing breakfast when my phone chimes with a text from Anya.
All good? Media's buying it. Backlash already shifting.
I show Sebastian the message. "See? Mission accomplished."
He takes the phone, reads it, then sets it down without commenting. "So the plan is to get your stuff today?"
I nod, pushing away my empty plate. "I don't have much. Should be quick."
"And then to my place." He says it casually, but there's nothing casual about the way he's looking at me.
I try to keep my tone light. "Right. For appearances."
Sebastian leans back in his chair. "For appearances," he says, though his expression says something entirely different. There's a cocky edge to that smirk.
"We could technically live separately," I tell him, testing waters I don't fully understand. "As long as we're seen together regularly."
He shakes his head. "Separate residences would look suspicious. Besides, I have three months of married leave before the new season. Plenty of time to sell the happy couple narrative."
"Three months?" I hadn't considered this part. "What am I supposed to do with you underfoot for three months?"
His grin turns wolfish. "Oh no. What am I to do with all this time? Follow you around? Cook you breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Drop you off and pick you up at work?"
"You're overselling it."
"Am I? Selling to whom? It's not for the media, baby. It's for you and for me."
I groan and roll my eyes. "No. I don't need a babysitter and housekeeper."
Sebastian gestures from his head to his chest. "No, you got someone better. A husband."
"Don't try my patience. I don't know how much more I can take, and it's only day one."
"But … but you took me so well last night. Every inch of me."
And that's how I end up tossing a pillow to his grinning face.
My apartment buildinglooks even shabbier than usual next to Sebastian's gleaming black Range Rover. The contrast is jarring—his wealthy, polished world colliding with my modest reality.
"This is me," I say unnecessarily as I unlock the door to 2D. "It's not much, but it's home."
I hold my breath as Sebastian steps inside, suddenly seeing my space through his eyes: the secondhand furniture, the cramped kitchen, the books and magazines stacked everywhere because I can't afford proper shelving.
"You have a lot of mugs," he says, moving to the open shelving where my collection is displayed—over a hundred mugs in various sizes, colors, and designs.
"It's my thing." I shrug, oddly defensive. "Some people collect snow globes or shot glasses. I collect mugs."
He picks up one shaped like a fox. "Why mugs?"
No one's ever asked me that before. I move to stand beside him, taking the fox mug from his hands and returning it carefully to its spot.
"When I was in the orphanage, we all had identical white plastic cups. No personality, nothing to call your own." I trace the rim of a blue ceramic mug with gold stars. "I promised myself when I had my own place, I'd have pretty, unique things to drink from. Something that was just mine. So now, I drink from different mugs every day."
Sebastian's playful tone disappears, and he lowers his voice, almost like he's being respectful of that not-so-funny revelation. "Which one's your favorite?"
