The key card is not where it should be.
Of course it isn’t.
I shift the basket to my other arm. The cherries roll softly against the paper. My pulse is too loud. I hear him behind me, quiet and close, and the awareness of him turns a simple task into theater.
“I have it,” I say.
His voice comes low behind me.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I’m always thinking something,” he says.
“That must be exhausting.”
“For other people, yes.”
My fingers close around the key card. Finally. I pull it out, then drop it. The card lands between my sandal and his shoe. I freeze. He bends before I do. He picks it up slowly, and when he straightens, he’s close enough that I can see the fine texture of his linen shirt, the pulse at the base of his throat, the faint shadow along his jaw. He holds the card between two fingers.
“Serena,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine.
“If you’re going to change your mind, do it now.”
The hallway seems too still. The television behind the closed door keeps murmuring. The air-conditioning hums somewhere overhead. Downstairs, someone laughs faintly, too far away to belong to this moment.
He’s not teasing now. Nothing in his face is teasing. This is the door he’s giving mebeforethe door. No pressure. No performance. No smooth line. Just an exit offered cleanly by a man who has spent the whole day making it very clear he sees more than I want him to.
My hand tightens around the basket.
“I’m not changing my mind,” I say.
His gaze drops to my mouth again. Then he slides the key card into the lock. The light turns green. He opens the door, but he doesn’t step in first.
Of course he doesn’t.
He waits for me.
I walk into the room.
The curtains are open. The last of the evening sits over Le Marais rooftops, deep blue at the edges, gold fading from the glass. The desk is scattered with my notes, my laptop, a glass holding the tarragon from the first market morning, and one half-finished bottle of water. The room smells faintly of basil now, cherries, warm fabric, city heat, and the flowers from the courtyard below. I set the basket on the small table beside the window.
Behind me, Damien closes the door.
The click is soft.
Final.
I turn.
He’s standing with his back against the door, one hand still on the handle, watching me. The easy banter is gone. The market, the canal, the wine, the walk, all of it narrows into the space between his body and mine.
My breath slips.
