The next day, I stop at a specialty shop on my way home.
“What's this?” He eyes the wrapped package suspiciously.
“Open it.”
He tears the paper to reveal a leather case. Inside, arranged in neat rows, is a set of professional-grade lockpicks.
He stares at it. Then at me.
“You mentioned once that you learned to pick locks as a teenager,” I say. “Something about a misspent youth. I thought maybe you could teach yourself something new. Or relearn something old. Something you can do sitting down, that uses your hands, that isn't work.”
He's quiet for so long I start to worry I've made a mistake.
“Emma.” His voice is rough. “This is...”
“Stupid? I know, it's weird, I just thought?—“
He pulls me into his arms. “This is perfect. You're perfect.”
“I'm really not.”
“You are.” He kisses my forehead. “You pay attention. You notice things. You saw that I was going crazy and you found a solution that wasn't 'just rest' or 'be patient.'” He pulls back, holding up the case. “Where did you even find these?”
“There's a shop downtown. I asked Maddox.”
He laughs, spends the rest of the evening picking the lock on the terrace door while I sketch at the dining table. The click of his tools becomes a comfortable background rhythm, punctuated by triumphant sounds when he succeeds. He even shows the set to Tank like a kid showing off a new toy.
I love... this.
The morning of the gala,the penthouse transforms.
A stylist arrives at ten with three rolling racks of dresses. Behind her, a hairdresser, a makeup artist, an assistant carrying enough products to stock a department store.
I stand in the living room, overwhelmed, as they take over the guestroom.
“Kai,” I hiss, pulling him aside. “This is too much.”
“This is exactly enough.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I want tonight to be perfect for you. Not because you need any of this.” His eyes hold mine. “You're the only woman who makes me forget everything else in the world. The dress, the hair, it's just wrapping. You're the gift.”
“That's very smooth.”
“I mean every word.”
I kiss him softly. “Thank you.”
“Go. Let them pamper you. I'll be getting ready in the bedroom.”
The next few hours pass in a whirlwind of fabric and brushes and heated tools. The stylist presents options. I try them on. Eventually we settle on a deep emerald gown that makes my eyes look enormous. The soft fabric wraps around my body as if it was designed for me. The hairdresser pins my hair up in an elegant twist, leaves a few strands loose around my face. The makeup artist works magic I don't understand. When I finally look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself.
I look like someone who belongs at a gala. Someone who belongs next to Kai.
I step out of the guest room. Kai is waiting in the hallway.
He's in a tuxedo, perfectly tailored, the boot finally replaced by a regular dress shoe. He can walk without the crutches now, though slowly. Hair styled back. Jaw freshly shaved.
He looks like a dream.
He sees me and stops. Just stops, like someone hit pause on the world.
