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He’s giving me space. In a world that keeps trying to take it away.
“You’re not…surprised?” I whisper, still curled against him like the weak thing I swore I’d never become.
“Sure,” he says simply. Like it’s not even up for debate. “But what matters is that I’m here.”
And somehow, I’m here, sounds a lot like I’ve got you.
Which is everything I didn’t know I needed.
And everything I don’t think I deserve.
The moment Kingston unlocks the door to his penthouse, I’m hit with the kind of masculine opulence that makes my lungs forget how to function.
This isn’t a home—it’s a mood.
Wide-plank dark hardwood floors ground the space with quiet confidence, their rich grain catching the soft wash of recessed lighting overhead. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, offering an unobstructed view of the Manhattan skyline—less like a backdrop and more like an ever-changing masterpiece. The city glows beyond the glass, twinkling like it knows it’s being watched. The living room strikes a careful balance between sophistication and comfort. A deep charcoal sectional anchors the space, oversized and well-worn in a way that invites lounging. The scatter of pillows—cashmere, suede, linen—looks curated but lived-in, like someone actually uses this place. A stone fireplace sits beneath a floating mantel of reclaimed wood, the slab of slate surrounding it smooth as river rock, subtly veined with silvery streaks that catch the light. A matte black coffee table—part industrial, part art piece—rests on a textured rug in muted greys and ochres, grounding the room in warmth. There’s a leather armchair in the corner with a reading lamp that suggests late nights and good bourbon, and tucked beside it, a stack of hardcover books and a forgotten Bruins cap. The air carries a hint of cedarwood, leather, and something unmistakably Kingston—polished, steady, and just a little bit untamed.
He drops my suitcases just inside the door like they weigh nothing—like I weigh nothing, and maybe I do in the strange gravity of his orbit.
“Come on,” Kingston says, nodding toward a hallway with walls the color of wet charcoal. “I’ll show you your room.”
I trail after him on legs that feel made of static. The place is so silent it hums. Not in a bad way, though. In a holy-shit-he-lives-like-this kind of way.
He pushes open a set of double doors, and it’s like I’ve stepped into a luxury hotel suite curated by a brooding billionaire with too much money and too few emotions.
The guest bedroom is enormous—A king-sized bed, clean white duvet, and navy accents. A dark wood dresser and matching nightstands complete the picture, along with a soft Persian rug that I’m half-tempted to sink onto just to see how it feels. A massive painting hangs above the headboard—abstract black brushstrokes cutting across a pale canvas like a fight frozen mid-swing.
The en-suite bathroom is marble and chrome, stocked with fluffy towels folded into neat thirds. Everything gleams.
He leans in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, muscles flexing like they’ve got something to say.
“Hungry?” he asks.
My gaze flicks to the wall-mounted clock. It’s nearly midnight.
“I—what?” I blink. “It’s late.” I was so desperate to get out of Horseshoe Bay, I ended up on a late flight out of Dallas. His mouth quirks like he knows exactly how unconvincing I sound. “So that’s a no?”
I hesitate. Because sure, my stomach’s playing it cool now, but it’s one bite of food away from a full-blown protest. And the thought of eating with him, of sitting across from Kingston Maddox in that kitchen I glimpsed with its waterfall island and moody pendant lights, makes something unspool in my chest.
“Depends,” I say carefully. “Are we talking sad-girl cereal or late-night caviar?”
“Neither,” he says, pushing off the doorframe. “I’m not that cruel. Promised your dad I'll take care of you.”
His eyes flicker over me, unreadable. “I figured we could get some take-out or something. You’ve had a long day.”
A long day. Right. One that started with me thinking I could survive the week without falling apart, and ended with me crashing at Kingston’s penthouse like a stray kitten he’s too soft to leave out in the cold.
“Okay,” I murmur, voice too thin for the way my heart is pounding. “Yeah. I could eat.”
His smile is brief, barely there, but it’s enough to send goosebumps skating up my arms.
He disappears toward the kitchen, and I stand in the doorway a beat longer, staring at the bed I’ll be sleeping in, and the bathroom I’ll be crying in.
But I follow the sound of his footsteps anyway.
Because I’m too tired to keep holding the weight of my own world, and something about the scent of soy sauce and safety feels like a temporary surrender I can survive. I pad barefoot into the kitchen, drawn by the promise of comfort food and the soft hum of a man who—despite everything—feels familiar in a way nothing else does right now.
Later, I’m curled on one of the barstools, belly full and soul slightly less splintered.
