“Most nights I’m at the office,” he adds. “Or at the church.”
Of course he is. The man builds sanctuaries for other people and sleeps wherever the work demands. The thought tightens something in my chest I don’t have a name for yet.
He shows me the bedrooms next. There are five of them. Each one is immaculate, with its own bathroom—stone tiles, rainfall showers, deep tubs that look like they’ve never been filled. Towels folded with precision. Mirrors without the benefit of fingerprints.
They feel like hotel rooms.
Places people pass through. Not places they stay.
“Pick any room you want,” he tells me. “The choice is yours.”
The freedom of that should feel reassuring. Instead, it feels heavy.
“Where do you sleep?” I ask. Because I don’t want to take his room. That would just be wrong on so many levels.
He hesitates just long enough for me to notice, then leads me down the hall to the far end of the penthouse. He opens the door and steps aside.
This room is no different to the others, which is probably why I couldn’t guess it was his.
The bed is large, neatly made, dark linens pulled tight like they’re never disturbed. The furniture is minimal. Dark wood. Clean edges. There’s no clutter or personal photos, and no traces of indulgence past the actual residence itself.
The art above the bed mirrors the one in the living room—angular, restrained, a study in contrast and fracture.
This room feels like him.
Contained. Controlled. Built for rest and comfort.
I stand in the doorway longer than I mean to, taking it all in. The silence stretches, but he doesn’t rush me. He just waits.
Finally, I turn my head and look back at him.
“Do you mind?” I ask.
The question feels bigger than the words suggest.
Do you mind if I take this space? Do you mind if I cross this line? Do you mind if I stay?
His answer comes without hesitation.
“No,” he says. “I don’t mind.”
Steam lingersin the air from my shower, fogging the mirror just enough that my reflection looks slightly unreal. I’m wearing my favourite nightshirt—thin, worn, too big on me, but it’s morethan comfortable. It hangs to mid-thigh. My hair is damp, pushed back, my skin still flushed.
I’m focused on my almost non-existent skincare ritual when I feel Justin moving in the bedroom. I smooth moisturizer over my cheeks and under my eyes.
I glance up in the mirror and catch him in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded against his chest.
He’s standing completely still. And his eyes aren’t on my face. They’re lower. My instincts snap awake instantly.
I follow his gaze down my own body, already knowing what he sees. The scar on my leg catches the light—there’s no hiding it in this space. It never learned how to be discreet. It runs jagged and uneven from my ankle up my calf, stopping just shy of my knee. Raised ridges of pink and pale flesh, the skin warped and bubbled where it healed wrong.
It’s the part of me I never look at for long. The part I pretend isn’t there.
My hand stills on my cheek. I feel heat rush up my neck, sharp and unwelcome. My shoulders tense, instinctive, protective. I shift my weight, angling my body away from him.
Ugly,my mind supplies immediately.Broken. Ruined.
I reach for the hem of the shirt, tugging it down without thinking.
