“You’ve been here since five.” He set a coffee on the windowsill and leaned against the doorframe, surveying the room. The arranged supplies. The adjusted lighting. The work surface positioned at the exact angle where afternoon sun would hit without glare. “This isn’t a workspace, Z. This is a love letter disguised as office supplies.”
“It’s a professional courtesy.”
Kael watched him. The grin faded into a look that was sharper. More serious. “She’s good for you. This thing that’s happening—don’t talk yourself out of it before it starts.”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“Right. You’re smiling, by the way. Your face is doing the thing it hasn’t done in years.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You’re right, it’s more of a grimace. But a happy grimace.” He stood. “I’ll tell reception she’s expected. Try not to rearrange the inks again before she gets here.”
She arrived at nine.
Her scent hit him before the door opened. Today it was spiked with adrenaline. She was nervous. Her body language said otherwise—shoulders back, chin up, the stride of a woman who’d dressed for battle—but chemistry didn’t lie.
She stopped inside the doorway. Scanned the room. Her gaze landed on the paper, and she crossed to the nearest stack without a word. Lifted a sheet. Held it to the light. Rubbed the fiber between thumb and forefinger.
Her shoulders dropped a quarter inch. Her fingers lingered on the grain—reverent, possessive—and she released a small breath she clearly hadn’t meant to let go.
She didn’t thank him. She didn’t look at him.
“This is the Hosokawa mill stock.” She set the sheet down. Picked up another. “The 300gsm.”
“Yes.”
“From the Portland supplier.”
“Yes.”
She turned to look at him for the first time. Her expression was complicated—grateful, suspicious, and guarded in rapid succession. “How did you know which paper I use?”
“Research.”
“Research.” She set the sheet down carefully. “You researched my paper brand.”
“Standard practice for a high-value collaborator.”
“Your standard practice involves tracking down a specialty Japanese stock that I’ve never mentioned in a single interview.”
“You mentioned it in your process videos.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You watched my process videos.”
“I review all collaborators’ published materials.”
“At midnight. According to the order timestamp on that shipping label.”
He looked at the crate. The timestamp was visible. He hadn’t thought to remove it.
“That’s—” She stopped. Started again. “That’s either very thorough or very concerning.”
“It’s thorough.”
“Uh-huh.” She turned back to the paper. Ran her thumb along the edge one more time. The corner of her mouth twitched. “It’s the right stock. For the record.”
She pulled out the stool and sat. Reached for the ink bottles he’d arranged on the work surface. Examined them one by one, holding each to the light the way she’d held the paper—with the focused attention of an artist assessing her tools. “You got the Winsor & Newton inks too. And the Schmincke watercolors.”
