He laughs, a real one, low and rough, catching him by surprise. It hits me like warm hands after a long freeze, sudden and startling and impossible to ignore. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard, rich with relief and the unmistakable edge of joy.
Then he leans down and kisses me.
Not a question. Not a maybe.
A kiss of alliance. Of promise. Of war, declared on our terms.
"Wait," I say, pulling back suddenly.
He freezes, a flicker of old concern slipping behind his eyes.
"Wait. One second. Don't move."
I turn and head for the stairs before I can second-guess the ridiculous, necessary plan forming in my head.
Of course, he moves anyway.
By the time I wrestle the rolled-up rug halfway out of the storage closet, he's there, wordless, steady, and far too graceful for someone helping with a tripping hazard in textile form.
"You didn't think I'd stay put, did you?" he says, taking the bulk of the weight like it's nothing.
"You're ruining my dramatic return," I mutter, grabbing the cookies from my emergency snack stash as we start up the stairs.
"You'll live," he says, following me into the loft.
With a triumphant heave, we unroll the massive faux bear rug across his pristine floor. Its plastic snout catches the afternoon light in a way that feels almost smug. I drop the cookies in the middle like a flag of rebellion.
He stares at the rug. Then at me. Then at the cookies. The stunned bewilderment on his face is everything.
"Okay," I say, planting my hands on my hips, catching my breath. "Now we can proceed. I'm sorry, but I refuse to plan acounter-offensive against a ruthless corporate titan in a space this tidy. It's terrible for morale and creative flow."
I wave my hand around at the clean lines and colorless organization he calls an office.
"If this is war, we need a space where we can spread out, think messy, and prepare for battle properly."
His eyes roam over the rug, the cookies, and then me, like he's assessing a foreign object that crash-landed in the middle of his order.
Then he sits down. Right on the rug. Legs crossed, face unreadable.
"You're serious," he says.
"Always," I say, already ripping open the cookie box. "Even when I'm being ridiculous."
A breath of silence stretches between us.
And then he smiles.
Not a smirk. Not his usual barely-there curve of the mouth.
A full, real smile.
And like that, the war room is open.
I settle cross-legged on the ridiculous rug and pat the space across from me, opening the cookie box between us. "Come on, Counselor. Time to get comfortable. We have a festival to plan."
He looks from the bear rug to my determined face, and a tightness loosens in his expression. The ghost of a real smile tugs at his lips as he settles across from me on the floor, his expensive suit looking wonderfully out of place against the fake fur.
"You know," he says, reaching for a cookie, "I think this might be the first time I've ever conducted business on a bear rug."
