Mathias wants a real relationship
1110 Words
The next morning arrived softer than the last.
The city buzzed as usual, but inside the penthouse, the atmosphere felt suspended — like something fragile had shifted and neither of them wanted to disturb it too quickly.
Cofie woke first.
For a moment she didn’t move. The curtains were half-drawn, pale February light spilling across the bedroom floor. She wasn’t used to waking up somewhere that didn’t feel entirely hers — yet over the past few days, this space had stopped feeling temporary.
She turned her head slightly.
Mathias was still asleep beside her, one arm resting loosely over the empty stretch of bed where she had been seconds earlier. His expression was unguarded in sleep — no calculation, no composure, none of the sharpness he carried into boardrooms.
Just a man.
She studied him longer than she meant to.
This was not part of the plan.
The plan had been clean. Structured. Mutually beneficial.
Somewhere between the courtroom battles and last night’s charged almost-kiss, the lines had blurred.
She slipped carefully out of bed, wrapping a silk robe around herself before walking toward the kitchen. Her phone, abandoned on the counter overnight, was vibrating again.
Missed calls.
Voicemails.
Interview requests.
A message from a national legal association inviting her to speak on digital evidence reform.
She exhaled slowly.
Hero.
The word still felt oversized.
Behind her, she heard movement.
“Escaping already?” Mathias’s voice was rough with sleep.
She didn’t turn immediately. “I like mornings.”
He walked into the kitchen a moment later, barefoot, sleeves pushed up casually. He looked less like a corporate figure and more like someone entirely human.
“You’re trending,” he said, nodding toward her phone.
“I noticed.”
“You saved my life,” he added quietly.
She looked at him then.
“I did my job.”
He leaned against the counter, watching her the way he had started watching her lately — not out of dependence, not out of strategy — but curiosity. Admiration.
“Are you always this composed the morning after you win something historic?”
She smirked faintly. “Do I look composed?”
“Terrifyingly.”
She poured herself a glass of water. “Flattery so early?”
“Persistence,” he corrected.
She arched a brow. “Still on that?”
“Very much.”
She took a slow sip, deliberately unhurried.
“You’re determined.”
“I don’t invest lightly.”
That made her smile — subtle, but real.
“Careful,” she said. “You’re starting to sound vulnerable.”
He didn’t retreat from it. “Maybe I am.”
The honesty lingered between them.
She set the glass down and moved past him toward the living area. He followed — not crowding her, just staying close enough to make his presence known.
“Tell me something,” he said.
She turned halfway. “What?”
“Last night — when you didn’t say no.”
Her expression shifted slightly, playful but guarded.
“Yes?”
“Was that calculated too?”
She folded her arms loosely.
“You think everything I do is calculated?”
“I think you’re capable of it.”
She stepped closer, just enough to narrow the space between them.
“And if it wasn’t?” she asked quietly.
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.
“Then I’m in trouble.”
She laughed softly.
“You’re already in trouble,” she murmured.
He reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the fabric at her waist. Not possessive. Not rushed. Testing.
This time she didn’t tease by stepping away.
She let him.
“You’re very confident for someone asking to be chosen,” she said.
“I’m not asking to be chosen,” he replied. “I’m asking to try.”
Her eyes softened, but she didn’t surrender ground.
“Trying implies risk.”
“I’ve survived worse this week.”
That earned him a quiet look.
“You’re serious,” she observed.
“Yes.”
She studied him carefully — not as a lawyer assessing testimony, but as a woman weighing something fragile.
“You don’t rush me,” she said.
“No.”
“You don’t corner me.”
“No.”
“You don’t assume.”
He shook his head.
Her fingers reached up almost absentmindedly, adjusting his collar — a small, intimate gesture she didn’t fully think through until she was already doing it.
“And if I decide I like having you chase me?” she asked lightly.
His mouth curved.
“Then I’ll make it interesting.”
Her pulse flickered.
“You think you can keep up with me?”
“I think I’ve already proven I can.”
She tilted her head. “In court.”
“In life,” he corrected softly.
The tension was different from yesterday — less explosive, more deliberate. Less about adrenaline, more about intention.
He leaned in slowly, giving her time.
She didn’t pull back.
Their lips met — not hurried, not claiming — but deeper than the brush from the night before. Warm. Intentional.
Her hand slid lightly against his chest again, steadying herself more than resisting him. For a brief second, she forgot about headlines and reputation and strategy.
Then she broke the kiss herself.
Not abruptly.
Just enough to breathe.
“You’re persistent,” she whispered.
“I’m invested.”
She traced a slow line along his shoulder, then stepped back with a faint smile.
“I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“I know.”
“I might still decide you’re too arrogant.”
“I can work on that.”
She laughed softly.
“You?” she teased. “Work on something?”
“For you?” he said quietly. “Yes.”
The sincerity caught her off guard more than the kiss had.
She picked up her phone again, glancing at the flood of messages.
“The world thinks we’re already a love story,” she said.
“Let them.”
She looked at him carefully.
“This doesn’t become public spectacle,” she warned. “If we try, it’s ours.”
He nodded without hesitation. “Ours.”
She stepped closer one more time, rising slightly on her toes to press a slower, lingering kiss to his lips — one that said maybe.
When she pulled away, her eyes held both mischief and possibility.
“Convince me,” she murmured again.
He smiled — not triumphant.
Certain.
The case had ended.
The performance had served its purpose.
But whatever was unfolding now?
That wasn’t strategy.
And neither of them were pretending anymore.
- Writer
