“That’s a large question for a Tuesday dinner,” I say.
“It’s not Tuesday.”
“Then that is a large question for whatever day this is.”
His mouth moves, but he does not let the smile become the point.
“Serena.”
The weight of my name in his voice quiets the easier answer. I look toward the river because I understand suddenly that I can talk about columns, assignments, aliases, New York, Paris, deadlines, logistics, flights, and apartments for hours if I need to. I can build a professional argument so sturdy that no one can accuse me of being reckless. I can explain the work. What I can’t do is explain how this man has become part of the room in my life where truth goes before I have edited it.
“I don’t know yet,” I say.
The words are formal because they need to hold their shape. He doesn’t flinch.
“That’s an honest answer.”
“It’s not a satisfying one.”
“I didn’t ask for satisfying.”
“No,” I say. “You asked for impossible.”
He sits back, his gaze still on me.
“I asked what you want.”
“Thatis the impossible part,” I respond.
The honesty of that stays between us, and for a moment the terrace feels suspended over the city, held in the space between what I can admit and what I can decide.
I set my glass down. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes,” he says.
“If I werenotleaving in five days, would you still be asking?”
His expression changes so slightly that anyone else might miss it. I do not.
“Yes,” he says.
The answer is immediate. No performance. No strategy. No pause to make it sound less vulnerable. I hear my own breath shift as he stands and comes around to my side of the table. He doesn’t make a speech. He doesn’t try to turn the moment into something he can win. He only holds out his hand.
I look at it, then at him.
“Damien—”
“—Come inside,” he says.
“This isn’t an answer.”
“No,” he says. “It’s what I have before the answer.”
I take his hand. Inside, the penthouse is warm and quiet, the windows still filled with fading gold. He leads me past the kitchen, past the island where my laptop lives, past the desk he installed without asking for thanks, and into the bedroom where the city opens beyond the glass. When he turns to me, his face has changed. Not softer. More exposed.
He touches my cheek. “I want you here.”
The sentence is simple enough to hurt. I close my eyes for one second, then open them.
