Page 5 of Suite 7

The silence that follows isn’t comfortable. It never is with us.

I should leave it alone. I should sit here quietly and wait for Sloane to come back and rescue us from ourselves.

But I’ve never been good at leaving things alone.

“I saw the Moretti building article,” I hear myself say, because apparently I hate myself.

His gaze flicks up. “And?”

“And nothing. Just saw it.”

“You have an opinion. You always have an opinion.”

That gets my eyes off the phone. “Fine. Pretentious minimalism without soul. All glass and steel, no humanity.”

He sets his phone down with care and turns to face me fully. “You wouldn’t understand the structural complexity required to achieve those clean lines.”

I stand. I’m not having this from a seated position. “Because I’m too stupid to appreciate your genius?”

“I didn’t say stupid.” He moves around the island. Closer. “I said uninformed. There’s a difference.”

“Right. I forgot, you need a degree in architecture to have aesthetic opinions.” I cross my arms. “Forgive me for thinking buildings should feel like something.”

“The Moretti building is —”

“It’s a glass box. A pretentious, soulless glass box that says nothing about the people who’ll work inside it.”

We’re closer now. Three feet of charged air between us.

“You approach everything emotionally instead of analytically.”

“And you hide behind ‘analytics’ and ‘structural integrity’ and jargon because actually having an emotional response might make you seem human.”

The space between us feels like a measurement. Neither of us has moved back.

“I feel plenty.”

“Funny. You hide it well.”

“Better than bleeding all over everyone and expecting them to clean it up.”

The words hit. I feel them hit.

“That’s not⁠—“

“You want everything on your terms.” He steps closer. Close enough that I can see the darker flecks in his eyes, and I am absolutely not looking at his mouth. “You think structure means sterile. That control equals cold.” His voice drops. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I.”

Not a question. I won’t give him that.

“Yes.” He holds my gaze. “You⁠—”

“Is your sex life structured too?” The words are out before I can stop them. “Scheduled? Analytical? Controlled?”

He goes very still. And I have the specific, terrible feeling of having stepped somewhere I can’t step back from.

“That,” he says quietly, “is none of your business.”