Page 68 of The Silver Fox Brother

Rowan's phone buzzes on the table.

He glances at it—just a quick look—but doesn't pick it up. The screen lights briefly, and I catch a glimpse of the notification.

M

Just the letter. No name, no context. The message preview is cut off, but it's there.

M.

Rowan looks back at me like nothing happened.

"So what's next for the Chen project? You mentioned prep work."

I pull my attention away from the phone.

"Final material selections. The millwork fabricator sent revised drawings that I need to approve. Mrs. Chen wants to do a site walk-through next week before installation starts."

"Sounds like everything's on track."

"It is."

The phone buzzes again.

Rowan's eyes flick to it, then back to me. He still doesn't pick it up.

"Popular tonight," I say, keeping my voice light.

"Just work stuff. It can wait."

We eat when the food arrives. The branzino is perfectly cooked—flaky, seasoned well, accompanied by roasted vegetables and a lemon butter sauce. I eat mechanically, tasting nothing, while Rowan talks about the ribeye and how it compares to the one he had last week at some steakhouse in Midtown.

The conversation flows like it always does—surface-level, safe, nothing that requires real vulnerability or connection. He talks about work. I talk about work. We discuss weekend plans that probably won't happen. We finish the wine.

By nine-thirty, we're done. Rowan pays the check and we leave the restaurant into the warm summer night.

"Want to walk?" he asks. "It's only ten blocks."

"Sure."

We head east, toward Gramercy. The streets are busy with people enjoying the warm evening—couples walking hand in hand, groups heading to bars, the energy of the city on a Thursday night in summer.

Rowan puts his arm around my shoulders. It's a familiar gesture, possessive in a way that used to feel protective but now just feels... automatic. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, glances at the screen.

"Work?" I ask.

"Yeah. Just some follow-ups." He types a quick response, pockets the phone again.

"Nothing urgent."

We walk in silence for a block. I look at the brownstones we pass, the iron railings and window boxes full of summerflowers. Somewhere in one of these buildings, people are living their lives—making dinner, watching TV, having conversations that matter. I wonder what that feels like.

"You're distant tonight," Rowan says, pulling me closer against his side.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

"Work. Projects. The usual."