He shakes his head and steps aside, giving me room to pass. “You really should get your sleep habits checked out.”
“Oh, hush. You’re awake too.”
“Yeah, because random short women claiming to be my ex show up at my door at two in the morning without warning.”
I step inside, and the second my feet hit the polished floor, I’m swallowed by the quiet luxury of his space—skyline views, curated everything, that calm, expensive stillness he wears like a second skin.
The space opens up into soaring ceilings and a wall of glass that stretches from floor to ceiling, the Cinnamon Grove city skyline glowing beyond it under a full moon. The living room blends into a sleek, modern kitchen where I watch him set thebrownies on the counter. The massive marble island and rich wood cabinets rise up the walls, everything in here is intentional. Controlled. Contained. Very not me.
I glance toward the terrace while he reaches for two wine glasses, still a little awed by the way his balcony spills out into the sky, like he bought a piece of the horizon and claimed it as his. The place is masculine and meticulous. It doesn’t shout. It breathes power.
He hands me a glass just as I turn back to him. “I was actually already doing it myself,” he says quietly. “So I guess your timing is…sort of perfect.”
I narrow my eyes. “And you were going to finish without me?”
He exhales, tired. “Max. We talked about this. We’re not a couple anymore. I don’t need to call you whenever I—”
“But you said as long as you didn’t have anyone else, we could still—”
He cuts me off. “And I don’t. Not anyone serious. At least, not right now.”
“Then why are you standing there with your guard up? You’re acting like you don't even want me here.”
“Okay. Jesus, Max.” His tone softens, resigned. “Let’s just do what we do so you can get some sleep.”
I take a sip and let the wine smooth the edges of my mood. “Fine.”
He leads me to the owner’s suite, and without a word, he moves to my side of the bed and straightens the pillow, the blanket, the exact little space that has somehow remained mine long after we stopped pretending we belonged to each other.
I climb into the bed. He climbs in beside me with plates for the brownies. And then, right on cue, he starts it.
I smile as theMartintheme song fills the room, bright and familiar. The TV casts a soft glow in the dark, warming hisshoulders, my pillow, this routine we keep pretending isn’t a habit we refuse to break.
We don’t talk. We never do at this part.
We just settle.
He hands me a brownie, and our fingers brush. It’s nothing. It’s everything. I take a slow bite as the laugh track rolls, and I feel my body loosen inch by inch, tension melting away the way it always does when we slip back into this rhythm.
Familiar.
Comforting.
Dangerously easy.
He owns the full Martin collection, rare copies you can’t even buy anymore. We never intended for it to become a ritual, but it did, slowly, the way the most intoxicating habits always do.
I take another bite, and a crumb falls onto the bed. I pause, mid-chew, and offer a sheepish grin. "Sorry."
He just shakes his head. "It's fine."
The episode keeps playing, but I swear I can see him vibrating, nearly about to burst.
"Just do it, Nyles."
"No. Seriously. I'm good."
"Nyles? The longer you wait, the harder it will be for either of us to fall asleep."
