Coffee turns into dinner.
Dinner turns into walking.
Walking turns into his place. Not the penthouse — he sold that. A brownstone in Brooklyn with books stacked on the floor and a kitchen that smells like someone actually cooks in it.
No strategy. No games. Just… quiet.
“This is weird,” I say, sitting on his couch. It’s leather, worn. Not corporate. His.
“What is?” He hands me tea. Tea, not wine. Not a power move. Just tea because I said I was cold.
“Us. Here. Without the building trying to kill us.”
He sits next to me. Not touching. But close enough that I can feel the heat of him. “Do you want the building back?”
“No.” I laugh. “God, no. I just… I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“There is no other shoe,” he says. “Just this. If you want it.”
I look
