I glance at Lauren. She’s listening intently, but then she lowers her gaze, looking almost ... embarrassed? I want to say thank you, to tell her how much I appreciate her being there when I needed it most, but the words stick in my throat. Because, well, I’m a jerk.
“Great, can I leave?” I ask, cutting through the tension with my impatience.
The doctor, clearly uncomfortable with my sudden bad mood, shifts a little. “Yes,” he says cautiously. “But as your cardiologist, I’d like to continue monitoring your heart, run some tests, and?—”
Before he can finish, I throw off the blanket like a magician performing some cheap trick. I sit up too fast, and the world tilts violently. My body feels like it’s made of concrete—no, a wet elephant. I would’ve made some magician-related joke, but my brain’s lagging behind my movements right now.
“No need, I have my cardiologist,” I lie, gripping Lauren’s hand tighter when I feel her trying to pull away. There’s no way I’m letting thisDoCtOr MIkEhandle anything. I’m not naïve—he’d have to schedule any appointments through Lauren, and then, well, by next year they’d probably be dating. He’d propose when he finally figured out there’s no one like her left.
Before I spiral further into my ridiculous jealousy, Lauren’s soft voice cuts through my thoughts.“Silas,” she whispers, pulling me back to reality. “I think you should listen to him.”
I huff and glance atDoCtOr MIkE. “I'm listening,” I grumble.
He gives me the rundown, throwing in advice I didn’t ask for. I already know my problem—stress, overwork, and probably too much caffeine—but none of it has a quick fix. When he finally finishes his speech, I turn to Lauren with a smug smile, letting her know I’ve done my part. “Can we leave now?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
Lauren gives me a defeated nod, knowing she’s not going to win this battle.
“Let’s go,” I say, standing up a little too quickly but determined to get out of here.
Standing at the hospital door, I glance at Lauren while we wait for the taxi. The urge to ask her to come with me to my apartment gnaws at me. I don’t want to be alone tonight, but the words stick in my throat. It’s ridiculous—I can give speeches to boardrooms and hold meetings with investors, yet I can’t muster the courage to askherfor something as simple as company. When the taxi arrives, I give the driver my address and stay silent for the entire ride. Maybe I don’t need to ask. Maybe she’s already decided to spend the night at my place after all. The thought crosses my mind, imagining her watching the sunrise, just like she once mentioned she wanted to.
When the taxi finally stops, I quickly pay the driver, and Lauren helps me out like I’m some fragile old man. If I didn’t secretly enjoy the attention, I’d be annoyed—hell, I’d be yelling at her to stop treating me like I’m disabled. The doorman stands at the entrance, watching our every move with far too much curiosity. I mutter a halfhearted, “Go do your job, Diego” under my breath as we shuffle past him toward the elevator. Once inside my apartment, though, everything shifts. Lauren’s energy changes and she suddenly takes charge as if the roles have reversed. It’s almost comical—here I am, the CEO, and somehow, she’s the one calling the shots.
“Go take a quick shower; I'll see what you have for dinner,” she orders.
For a moment, I pause, letting her words echo through the vastness of my apartment. It feels … different. Almost homey, and I can’t help but admit that Ilikeit. I like it a lot more than I expected. This strange new dynamic with Lauren calling the shots feels oddly comforting. Without saying anything, I turn and head to the bathroom, locking myself in for a moment to clear my head. When I step out, a rich aroma wafts through the air, pulling me toward the kitchen like one of those cartoon characters floating toward breakfast on a Saturday morning. Lauren stands by the stove, stirringsomething in a pot with a wooden spoon—something new, since I don’t cook.
She looks up, and when her eyes meet mine, her expression shifts into a warm smile.That smile. I’ve never seen her look at me like that before—soft, genuine, like she’s not justmyassistant but someone who actually … cares.
And for the first time, I feel something deeper than the usual tension. It’s a warmth I haven’t felt in a long time.
“How do you feel?” Lauren asks softly, wiping her hands with a dishcloth and walking toward me.
“Better,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, savoring the way she looks at me now—gentle, almost ... tender. This day, which seemed like a disaster from the start, suddenly feels like it’s shifting into something else. Something better.
The ambient light in the apartment casts a warm, orange glow over everything, softening the edges, making the space feel more intimate. Through the windows, the city of New York glimmers in the distance. But right now, all I can focus on is Lauren, smiling at me like that. It doesn’t feel so bad anymore. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I felt this ... peaceful. When I bought this place, I was meticulous about every detail, working closely with the interior designer. I had a vision—one rooted in an idea I discovered as a kid. Wabi-Sabi, an ancient Asian philosophy, taught me to find beauty in the imperfect, the temporary, the incomplete. It captivated me. It was a concept that spoke to something I couldn’t quite articulate at the time.
But now, standing here, looking at Lauren, it all clicks into place. No one sees her the way I do. No one notices her imperfections, the subtle cracks in her armor, the details that make her ...real. But I do. And I am obsessed with knowing all of them—every flaw, every crevice that makes her uniquely Lauren. The more I see, the more I realize how perfect her imperfection is.
She is my alchemist.
Unrepeatable, perfect in her imperfection, and mine—even if she doesn’t know it yet.
My obsession with imperfection eventually spread beyond people,reaching into the objects I choose to surround myself with. Worn wood from a blacksmith’s house, asymmetrical vases with cracks, and stained cement—all of it decorates my apartment now. The space is a blend of neutral colors: white walls, minimalist furniture, a fusion of Nordic simplicity, and Japanese aesthetics. The interior designer called it “Japandi,” a perfect combination of everything I wanted—imperfect, beautiful, calming. Every time I walk through the door, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace, admiration for the unique pieces scattered around me, and a deep harmony in the imperfections.
Lauren steps closer, placing her hand on my forehead, probably checking my temperature, her gaze studying me like I’m some puzzle she’s trying to solve. She’s just inches away, and without thinking, I reach out and take the tips of her fingers, playing with them between mine. It feels natural—like this is something we’ve done a thousand times, though we haven’t. As if touching her doesn’t ignite something primal inside me.
“Thanks,” I whisper, my eyes fixed on how our skin connects, how her fingers feel against mine. It’s tender, but electric at the same time.
She glances down at our hands, seeing what I’m seeing. “You’re welcome,” she responds softly, almost inaudible, her voice barely breaking the silence between us. And in that moment, I know she feels it too—the overwhelming intensity of this touch, the power of it.
It feels right. Too right.
I intertwine our fingers, holding her hand for just a moment longer, and then I look straight into her eyes. The instant she meets my gaze, she lets go, stepping back as though the weight of it is too much to bear.
“I- I hope you like the stew,” she stammers, turning back to the pot and stirring it, though I can see she’s just as rattled as I am.
I move to sit at the barstools by the kitchen island, nodding silently, the tension thick in the air between us.
