Page 44 of Suite 7

“Until I say.” No negotiation in it. “Yes or no.”

I open my mouth to argue.

Close it.

“Yes, Sir.”

And then he starts working.

Actually working. Pencil moving across blueprints. The quiet scratch of it, the occasional sip of coffee. He’s completely focused on his task, while I’m kneeling beside him.

The minutes pass and at first it’s excruciating, my brain racing, this is weird, get up, you look ridiculous — but I don’t get up, because he told me to stay, and slowly, so slowly I almost don’t notice, the racing thoughts stop.

My breathing evens out, and the need to do something fades.

I’m just here. Kneeling. Existing. Not managing, not controlling, not planning anything at all.

His hand comes down, fingers threading into my hair. Gentle. Unhurried. Wordless reassurance that I’m where he needs me to be.

Time loses its edges. The quiet hum of the building settles around us.

Finally he sets down his pencil.

“Stand.”

I rise on slightly shaking legs, knees stiff but not painful. He turns his chair to face me and studies my face.

Then he stands and pulls me into his arms, and I let myself be held. Properly held. My face against his chest, his hand moving up my back, slow, like he’s making sure I’m still here.

Too soon, he pulls back slightly and presses a kiss to my hair before cupping my face. “What we did tonight — that was real. That was you learning what this can be.”

His eyes hold mine. “So when you text me tomorrow — if you text me tomorrow — you’re choosing this knowing it’s not just the dramatic moments. It’s trust and care and all the ordinary ones in between. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” I say. “I can do that.”

He reaches for my jacket.

“You’re not driving.”

“Kane, I drove here⁠—”

“You’re still in that quiet headspace. I’m not putting you behind the wheel.” He holds up the jacket for me to slide into. “Your keys.”

Not a request.

I should argue. But the truth is I’m still floating, my brain still soft and settled, and the idea of him taking care of me doesn’t feel like losing ground. It feels like the opposite.

I hand over my keys.

“Good girl.” He pockets them. “Aftercare means making sure you’re safe. Non-negotiable. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

His hand stays at the small of my back as we walk to the parking lot. When we reach my car, he stops.

“This is a death trap.”

“She’s not a death trap.” I say it automatically, the way you’d defend a friend. “Her name is Margot, she has a dent because a shopping cart hit her in 2021 and I couldn’t afford the repair that month, and she has never once failed to start on the first try, which is more than I can say for the men in my life.”