He kisses me again, deeper this time. I taste coffee and joy and the beginning of something that makes my heart expand.
I floatinto work on a cloud.
The morning meetings blur past. I smile at everyone, even Rachel, even the guy from accounting who always microwaves fish in the break room. Nothing can touch me today.
Zoe corners me at lunch.
“Okay, what happened?” She studies my face. “You're glowing. Literally glowing. Did you finally?—“
“The Silverpoint contract came through.”
“That's amazing! But that's not why you're glowing.” She narrows her eyes. “Emma Sinclair. Did you sleep with Hot CFO?”
I feel my cheeks flush.
“Oh my god.” Zoe grabs my arm. “Oh my GOD. Tell me everything.”
“Not everything everything. But... yes. Things have... progressed.”
“Progressed. She says progressed.” Zoe fans herself. “I need details. Scale of one to ten.”
“Eleven,” I admit, and she actually squeals.
“I knew it. I knew he had big dick energy. Was I right? I was right, wasn't I?”
“Zoe!”
“What? I'm happy for you!” She hugs me tight. “You deserve this, Em. You deserve someone who looks at you like you hung the moon.”
“He doesn't?—“
“He absolutely does. I saw it when I visited. The man is gone for you.”
I think about this morning. The way he saidbabylike it was the most natural thing in the world. The dance in the kitchen. The way he keeps sayingweinstead ofI.
“Maybe,” I admit. “Maybe he is.”
The days blur together in the best way.
I move my things from the guest room, piece by piece. My art supplies migrate to a corner of the living room that Kai quietly clears without being asked. My clothes fill half his closet. My shampoo sits next to his in the shower.
We fall asleep tangled together every night. We haven't gone further than that first evening, both of us content to take our time, to learn each other in smaller ways first. The brush of his hand on my hip as I'm falling asleep. The weight of his arm across my waist. The sound of his breathing, slow and steady, as the city glitters below.
Work is good. The Silverpoint news spreads through the office like wildfire. Suddenly everyone wants to talk to me about the ELK campaign. How did I craft the messaging? What was my strategy for community engagement? Could I consult on their projects?
Miles watches from the sidelines, jaw tight, saying nothing. His silence is louder than any insult.
“He's plotting something,” Rachel warns me one afternoon. “I've seen that look before.”
“Let him plot.” I'm too happy to care. “I'm not playing his games anymore.”
My freelance work expands. Marie's poster leads to three more commissions from her dance community. Derek refers me to two other artists. Clio's gallery showing brings a steady stream of inquiries. Every evening, I spend an hour or two at the dining table, sketching concepts, sending proposals, building something that's entirely mine.
Sometimes Kai sits nearby, reading or answering emails, content to share the same space.
One evening, after a particularly brutal physiotherapy session, he comes home frustrated and restless. Ankle is healing, but slowly. The limitations chafe against his natural energy.
I watch him pace the living room, wince with every step. An idea forms.
