“You’re fine with that?” I pressed.
“Yes.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s honest.”
I studied him. “You’ve had this house for a while.”
“Yes.”
“So this isn’t you rearranging your life for me?”
“No.”
The answer was steady. Grounded. True.
“And you’re still not asking me to stay,” I said.
“I’m not asking,” he replied. “I’m offering.”
My pulse flicked.
“And if I choose my condo?” I asked.
“Then you’ll sleep in your bed,” he said evenly. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
No threat. No performance. No visible calculation.
It unsettled me more than pressure would have.
“And if I stay with you?” I asked quietly.
His gaze darkened just slightly.
“Then you stay,” he said. “And you don’t pretend it’s temporary.”
That landed.
I swallowed. “Do you already have everything I’d need at your house?”
“Yes.”
“You’re very prepared.”
“I don’t improvise with what matters,” he said calmly.
There was no suggestion that the house existed because of me. Which somehow made it heavier.
He wasn’t building a stage. He was inviting me into something already rooted.
The car slowed in front of an iron gate set into a high white wall.
South of Broad.
The gate opened without a code, without a pause—automatic, silent.
The driver pulled into a small courtyard and stopped.
