Page 70 of The Silver Fox Brother

But part of me thinks maybe this will help. Maybe physical connection will close the distance I've been feeling. Maybe it will remind me why I'm here, why we're together, why this matters.

I turn toward him.

Rowan takes it as permission. His hands become more insistent, pulling my sleep shirt up and off. His mouth finds mine—kissing me in a way that feels more mechanical than passionate, going through motions we've done hundreds of times.

I kiss him back because that's what I'm supposed to do.

His hands move over my body—familiar territory, nothing surprising, nothing exploratory. He knows where to touch, what usually works, but tonight it feels perfunctory. Like he's checking boxes rather than connecting.

He shifts on top of me, and I let him. Spread my legs to accommodate him, and wrap my arms around his back because that's the choreography we've established over two years.

He fists his dick and pushes inside me without much preamble. No foreplay, no buildup, no question of whether I'm ready. Just assumes, moves, finds his rhythm quickly.

I close my eyes and try to be present. Try to find something in this that feels intimate, connected, real. But all I feel is him moving above me, thrusting himself inside of me, focused entirely on himself, chasing his own release with single-minded efficiency. I make few fake moans, as I’m barely as wet as I’d like to be.

It's over in minutes.

He does one last thrust, then comes with a quiet groan, his body tensing and then relaxing against mine. Stays inside me for a few seconds, as he finishes, breathing hard against my neck, then pulls out and rolls off.

He doesn't ask if I came—I didn’t—but he doesn't even ask. He never asks these days.

Rowan kisses my shoulder—automatic, obligatory—and settles onto his side of the bed.

"Night, babe."

Within three minutes, his breathing evens out into the rhythm of sleep. I lie there staring at the ceiling. Empty. Used. Alone despite the body sleeping eighteen inches away.

I think about Knox's hands when he was gesturing at the construction site. Strong, capable, the way his fingers traced invisible lines in the air when he was explaining his vision.

The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. Guilt follows immediately. I push it away, turn onto my side facing away from Rowan, and close my eyes. Sleep doesn't come quickly. I lie there in the dark, listening to Rowan's breathing deepen into soft snores, my mind refusing to settle.

The Chen project. The studio. Maya's schedule for tomorrow. The fabric samples that arrived today. Knox's business card in my portfolio.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. I drift into uneasy sleep sometime after midnight, my last conscious thought about floor-to-ceiling windows and sunlight at impossible heights.

The apartment is silent.Both of us sleeping. Rowan's phone sits on his nightstand, screen dark, face down.

Thirty minutes pass.

12:33 AM.

The phone rings; jarring, loud, shattering the silence. I jolt awake, heart immediately pounding, disoriented in the dark. The phone keeps ringing. The screen lights up the room with harsh blue light. Rowan doesn't stir. He sleepslike the dead, always has. The ringing continues. I turn my head, squint at the nightstand. The screen shows a name.

‘M’

Who calls at 12:30 at night?

The phone rings again, and again. Rowan still doesn't wake. My heart is hammering now. Something in my chest tightening with each ring. I reach across Rowan's sleeping form, grab the phone from the nightstand. My thumb hovers over the screen for half a second. Then I swipe to answer and press the phone to my ear.

"Hello?..”

Silence on the other end. Not dead air—I can hear breathing, the faint sound of movement. My heart is pounding.

"Hello?"

A woman's voice, young, confused.

"Oh. I... I'm sorry. I must have the wrong number."