Page 116 of Suite 7

“She was wrong,” I say.

“I know that now.” He says it like it took a long time to know. “Didn’t then.”

I think about the room. The sheepskin lining on the cuffs. The mini fridge with the protein bars. The accumulated habit of someone who has spent years making sure another person is safe.

“That room is a sanctuary, Kane.”

His arms tighten. Just slightly.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, after a moment.

“What did you expect?”

“I’m not sure. Not this.”

I settle back against his chest. The water is starting to cool at the edges. Neither of us moves to do anything about it.

Here it is. The thing that’s been sitting in the room since the restaurant, since the tiramisu, since I ran cold water over my wrists in the bathroom and thought I need to do something with this before it undoes me.

I tried to manage it. Filed it somewhere I knew how to reach later. But it found me anyway

“Can I say something without you making it weird?” I ask.

“Historically unlikely,” he says. “But go ahead.”

“You remember what you said on my couch? When you asked me to dinner?” I keep my voice conversational. Casual. Like we’re discussing the weather. “How it wasn’t part of our arrangement.”

“I remember.”

“And then I said you wanted to take me on a date, and you said—” I do my best Kane voice, which is frankly excellent — “I want to take you to dinner. With great dignity.”

A pause. “Your impression needs work.”

“It’s perfect and you know it.” I look up at him. “My point is — tonight. All of it. The actual date, the scene, this extremely dignified situation where I’m basically a noodle in your bathtub.” I gesture at the general situation. “I think we have our answer to whether we work outside the scenes.”

“Do we?”

“We do. Which means the arrangement is officially retired. We are now—” I pause, giving him the opening.

He takes it. “People who go on dates,” he says.

“And do other things.”

“Extensively.”

“Very extensively.” I’m smiling and I can’t stop it. I tilt my head to look at him properly, the controlled lines of him, the gray eyes, the almost-smile he’s not quite suppressing. “I guess that means we have to tell Sloane.”

His arms tighten around me. I let the warmth of it settle.

The quiet stretches. Comfortable, then thoughtful.

“I want to ask for two weeks before we do,” he says. “I want us to stand in this for a moment before we blow everything open.” He is quiet for a moment. “I know what two weeks costs. Two more weeks she doesn’t know. Two more weeks the lie compounds. I’m not asking because I’m afraid of the conversation. I’m asking because I want us to be solid before we have it. I want to know what we are before we have to explain it to anyone else.”

I think about Sloane’s voice on the phone tonight. I’m so happy for you, Vee. The way she said it. She meant every syllable. She was handing me something that cost her nothing because she didn’t know the price.

“Two weeks,” I say. “Actual two weeks. Not two weeks that become four.”

“Two weeks,” he confirms.