Page 93 of Suite 7

“Yes. Why? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just—“ A pause. “Stay there.”

“Kane, what⁠⁠—”

Click.

I stare at my phone.

Ten minutes later there’s a knock at the door.

Kane is standing there holding two coffee cups, hair slightly damp from the rain, his eyes already on mine through the gap before I’ve finished opening the door.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He hesitates, which is rare for a man who always looks like he has a plan.

“I wanted to see you.”

I look at him. The damp jacket. The coffee cups. Kane Sinclair, who plans everything, who has never once shown up somewhere without a reason filed neatly in advance.

“It’s past nine PM.”

“I’m aware.”

“And it’s raining.”

“Also aware.” The corner of his mouth moves. “Are you going to keep listing facts at me, or are you going to let me in?”

I should say something sharp. I have several options. Instead I feel the thing I’ve been not-feeling all evening settle in my chest like it lives there.

“Come in,” I say. And step back before I can make it complicated.

He enters my space and I see it the way he must: how different my loft is from his penthouse. Plants in mismatched pots, colorful throw pillows on every surface, photographs covering one entire wall, clothing racks because I refuse to hide my wardrobe. Everything has its place in Kane’s world. Nothing has a permanent place in mine.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t rearrange anything with his gaze or look for the order underneath the chaos.

He just hands me one of the cups.

“Lavender latte. Oat milk. Extra hot. Light foam.”

I stare at it. At him. “How did you know that?”

“You mentioned it to Sloane once.” A slight shrug. “I was there.”

I go still. “That was what? Six months ago?”

He looks at me. Doesn’t confirm it. Doesn’t deny it. Just holds my gaze, steady, like there’s nothing here he needs to explain.

Six months ago. Before any of this. When we were still fighting at every dinner, still pretending we couldn’t stand each other.

He was paying attention even then.

I don’t know what to do with that.

So I say: “Thank you.”

We move to my couch, oversized, covered in soft blankets and throw pillows. I curl into one corner, feet tucked under me. He sits close but not touching, right next to my scattered papers and the mug I forgot to return to the kitchen. But this organized man in my chaos is not flinching.