He handed her a glass, lips tugging into a half-smirk. “Also, it’s damn good.”
The version of him she’d built in her mind, the polished and unreachable one, was crumbling. In its place: something quieter. Truer. She studied him. “He sounds like someone worth remembering.”
“He was,” Gideon said, the words quiet.
Then, the flicker of a dry smile. “Can’t say the same for the rest.”
The words hung between them—not bitter, but unfinished. They filled the space with a quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable, just unspoken.
They ate like they’d done it before. No performance. Only presence. A rhythm that didn’t need filling.
A little while later, Gideon set his fork down and leaned back. “This place… it’s not what most people would expect.” His thumb brushed the stem of his wineglass, more a gesture than a thought. “But that’s what I like about it.”
Arden looked up. “Most people?”
He offered the faintest smile. “My family, mostly. They live for legacy and perception. I wanted it to feel like…”
He hesitated, but not because he didn’t know the word. Because the truth of it felt dangerous to say aloud. “Mine.”
Arden lifted her wine. “And does it?”
His eyes moved across the rooftop—the imperfect brick, the tangled string lights, the pots that didn’t match. Something in him eased. “It does now.”
And somehow, so did she.
Conversation flowed after that,unrushed and unfiltered. He talked about the brownstone like it was more than a home. A rebellion. A refusal to play the game on their terms.
And she listened.
For once, Arden didn’t armor up or pivot away. She… let him be.
Her gaze drifted toward a small pot near the terrace edge, where roses bloomed defiantly against the chill. She reached out, fingers brushing the soft edges of a petal.
“They’re lovely,” she murmured.
Gideon followed her gaze.
“They’re stubborn.”
She glanced at him.
“The gardener said they wouldn’t last,” he said with a half-shrug. “I told him to plant them anyway.”
She stilled. Not outwardly, but something inside her held. “My grandmother grew roses,” she said finally, voice quiet. “She used to call me Rose—it’s my middle name.”
Her fingers hovered over the bloom. “I hated it when I was little. But now…” A shallow breath. “I miss how it sounded when she said it.”
It was too much. She felt it the second it left her mouth.
But then?—
“Arden Rose.”
Her gaze snapped to his. The way he said it—like claiming something he already owned. The air didn’t just shift. It thickened.
Her chest tightened.
She hated how it sounded in his voice. She hated even more how much she didn’t.
