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Rose’s polished heel caught on the carpet. The air vanished from her lungs.

Across the room, surrounded by junior staff, Scara stood frozen mid-sentence, his dark blue hair like a shock against the sterile white walls. His indigo eyes widened, just for a fraction, mirroring the electric jolt that shot straight to her core.

Then his CEO mask slammed down, his smirk returning sharper, deadlier. 'Everyone, back to work.' His gaze never left hers. 'You. My office.'

The junior staff scattered, heads down, a ripple of murmured curiosity swallowed by the hum of computers and the clack of keyboards. Rose’s own feet felt bolted to the industrial-grade carpet. She watched him turn, the perfect line of his tailored suit jacket, and walk toward a glass-walled corner office without looking back. He expected her to follow.

Her heart wasn’t hammering. It was doing something worse—a slow, thick thud that vibrated in her throat. She forced a breath in. The office air tasted of recycled ventilation and cheap lemon cleaner. She smoothed a hand over the front of her own suit jacket, a reflexive gesture to check her armor. It was still there. She was still here. Rose Nakamura, transferred on merit. Not the girl he used to bait in the library.

She walked. The click of her heels was too loud in the sudden quiet of her own head. Past rows of identical desks, faces glanced up, then quickly away. The path to his office felt like a gauntlet. The glass door was slightly ajar.

She pushed it open.

His office was minimalist, cold. A large steel desk, two chairs facing it, a single abstract painting on the wall that looked expensive and emotionless. The only warmth was the city skyline framed in the floor-to-ceiling window behind him. He stood there, his back to her, looking out.

'Close the door.'

His voice was lower than she remembered. It hadn’t lost its edge.

She pushed the door until the latch clicked. The sound sealed them in. The ambient office noise faded to a distant murmur.

He turned. He leaned back against the window ledge, crossing his arms. The afternoon light haloed his blue-black hair, throwing his face into sharp, handsome shadow. His indigo eyes tracked her from the door to the center of the room, a slow, appraising sweep that felt physical.

'Rose.' He said her name like he was tasting it. 'I read the transfer file. I didn’t believe it was you.'

'Surprise,' she said. Her voice came out steady. A small victory.

'A promotion, they said. Top performer in your cohort.' He pushed off the ledge and took a single step toward his desk, not toward her. 'I had to pull the original HR submission. Your photograph was… absent.'

'A clerical error.'

'A strategic omission.' He stopped, his fingertips resting on the cold steel of the desk. 'You knew this was my branch.'

She hadn’t. The realization was a cold splash. Corporate had given her a city and a title. The CEO’s name had been redacted, listed as ‘TBD’ in the final paperwork. A trap, or just their idea of a neutral transition. She felt the flush climb her neck anyway. 'I didn’t.'

'You’re lying.' He didn’t sound angry. He sounded fascinated. 'Your left thumb is rubbing your index finger. You only do that when you’re lying or nervous.' He tilted his head. 'Which is it, Rose?'

She stilled her hand. He remembered that. The intimacy of the observation, the years it spanned, stole her breath more effectively than any command. She was standing in the CEO’s office. He was standing in her past.

'I’m not nervous.'

'No?' He finally moved toward her, not with purpose, but with a slow, predatory leisure that shrunk the room. He stopped a few feet away, well outside professional distance, just inside personal. She caught the faint scent of his cologne—sandwood and something clean, sharp. New. Adult. 'You look nervous. You look…' His eyes dropped, taking in her tailored suit, her elegant updo, the careful composition of her. 'Polished. And utterly terrified.'

'I’m not terrified of you, Scara.'

'You should be.' His smirk was back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were dark, unreadable pools. 'I’m not the debate captain you could out-argue anymore. I sign your paychecks. I approve your projects. I own the air you’re breathing in this room.'

Her composure cracked. Just a hairline fracture. 'Is that why you froze out there? Because you own the air?'

Something flickered in his gaze. A raw, unguarded flash she hadn’t seen since they were teenagers. It was gone in a heartbeat, replaced by something hotter, more deliberate. He closed the last step between them.

He didn’t touch her. He just stood there, letting her feel the heat of him, the solid presence of his body. She had to tilt her head up to hold his stare. Her pulse was that slow, heavy drum again, low in her belly.

'I froze,' he said, his voice a low rumble meant only for her, 'because the last time I saw you, you told me you’d rather fail than ever ask me for help. And now you work for me.' His gaze dropped to her mouth. 'The irony is… delicious.'

She could feel her own breath, shallow and quick, between them. She could see the exact moment his eyes changed, the CEO dissolving into the boy who’d loved to corner her after class. The boy who’d looked at her like she was a puzzle he was dying to solve.

'This is a mistake,' she whispered. She didn’t know if she meant her transfer, his proximity, or the way her body was leaning toward him before her mind could catch up.

'Probably.' His hand came up. He didn’t touch her face. He brushed a single, stray strand of dark hair that had escaped her updo, tucking it slowly, deliberately, behind her ear. His knuckles grazed the sensitive skin there. A full-body shiver racked her, betraying everything. His smirk turned genuine, wicked. 'Welcome to the branch, Rose.'

She sighed, a sharp, annoyed exhale that belonged entirely to the library stacks and the heated debates of their past. It was the sound of her teenage self, utterly exasperated by him.

His wicked smile widened. “There she is.”

“This isn’t a game, Scara.”

“Everything’s a game. You just forgot the rules.” He finally stepped back, breaking the charged space between them, and moved to his desk. He sat on the edge of it, one leg braced on the floor, the other dangling. He looked utterly at ease, king of his cold, glass castle. “Sit.”

She remained standing. “I’d prefer to understand my reporting structure.”

“You report to me. Directly. No intermediaries.” He picked up a sleek tablet, swiping once. “Your first project is the Veridian account. It’s a mess. The previous lead cried in the bathroom twice last week.”

“Charming.”

“I need it cleaned up by Friday. The files are already in your new drive.” He set the tablet down. His indigo eyes pinned her. “You’ll find I’m not a difficult boss. I expect excellence. I reward it. I punish mediocrity. You were excellent once. Prove you still are.”

The challenge was a live wire. It straightened her spine. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

“You do. Because every person in that bullpen out there thinks you got this transfer because you know me. They think it’s favoritism. Nepotism. Something dirty.” He leaned forward slightly. “I want you to prove them wrong. I want you to be so brutally good that they have to admit you earned it. That will be… satisfying.”

Her cheeks burned. The implication was clear—proving herself proved his judgment. It tied her success to his. “And if I fail?”

“You won’t.” He said it with absolute certainty. “The girl who argued me into a corner over Kantian ethics doesn’t fail at corporate spreadsheets.”

He remembered that, too. The specific topic. The flush spread from her cheeks down her neck, under the crisp collar of her blouse. She felt seen in a way that had nothing to do with her resume.

“Your office is the glass cube next to mine. Smaller. Less view.” He nodded toward the adjacent wall. “You can see me. I can see you. Think of it as… motivational.”

She followed his gaze. The shared glass wall offered no privacy, only a clear line of sight to his desk. A gilded cage. A display case. Her stomach tightened.

“I’ll need to review the Veridian files immediately.” Her voice was all business, a fragile shell over the chaos underneath.

“Of course.” He stood, smooth and fluid, and walked to the door. He opened it for her. The hum of the main office flooded back in. “Welcome to your new life, Rose.”

She walked past him, careful not to let any part of her suit brush against his. The scent of sandwood and sharp citrus followed her into the open plan.

Twenty faces pretended not to watch. She kept her eyes forward, her heels clicking a steady rhythm on the carpet until she reached the glass cube. Her name was already on a polished plaque beside the door: Rose Nakamura, Senior Project Lead.

Inside, it was exactly as he’d said—smaller, less view. A desk, a chair, a monitor. The only notable feature was the clear, uninterrupted view of Scara’s office. He was already back at his window, a silhouette against the skyline, a phone to his ear.

She sat. The leather chair was cold. She logged into the computer, her fingers steady on the keys. The Veridian folder was there, flagged urgent. She opened it. Columns of numbers, angry red client emails, a timeline of failures.

Her mind began to sort, categorize, strategize. This was her language. This was where she was safe.

Then she felt it. A prickle on the back of her neck. She looked up.

Across the glass divide, Scara had turned from the window. He wasn’t on the phone anymore. He was just standing there, watching her work. A faint, unreadable curve on his lips. He lifted his coffee mug in a slow, deliberate mock-toast.

Her left thumb rubbed her index finger. She forced it still.

She looked back at her screen, the numbers blurring for a second. The slow, thick thud in her belly returned. It wasn’t panic. It was recognition. The game was on. And he had already made the first move.

She sighed again, the sound thick with a decade’s worth of familiar, bone-deep annoyance. It was the exact sigh from the school library, from the debate hall podium, from every time he’d flicked a paper football at her head and flashed that ridiculous, boyish grin. She turned her face away from the glass wall, her movements sharp, and yanked the cord for the vertical blinds. They rattled down, cutting off the view of him, of his office, of his mocking toast.

Behind the slats, she saw his silhouette shift. He didn’t move away. He stepped closer to the glass on his side.

She refused to look. She focused on the spreadsheet glowing on her monitor, the cells of data a sanctuary of logic. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, correcting formulas, aligning timelines. The chaos of the Veridian account began to order itself under her touch.

A faint tap on glass. Once. Twice.

Her spine went rigid. She didn’t turn.

The tapping became a slow, deliberate drag—a single finger sliding down a blind slat from the outside. It was an absurd, juvenile sound. Completely un-CEO-like. Heat prickled at the back of her neck. She clenched her jaw.

Against every professional instinct screaming in her head, she glanced sideways.

He had pried two slats apart with his fingers. His indigo eye peered through the gap, crinkled at the corner with silent laughter. His mouth was a playful, exaggerated pout. Then, his tongue stuck out. Just a little. A silly, boyish, utterly annoying gesture.

Rose snapped her gaze back to her screen, her heart doing a stupid, traitorous flip in her chest. She forced a breath out through her nose. Too silly. Boyish. Annoying Scara, as always.

She immersed herself in the task. The numbers were real. The client’s complaints were real. This was her domain. She drafted a restructuring plan, her notes concise and lethal. The outside world—the muffled office sounds, the faint scent of sandwood that seemed to have seeped through the glass, the presence a few feet away—faded into a dull hum.

An hour bled away. Her lower back ached from the cold leather chair. She stretched her neck, rolling her shoulders, and finally allowed herself to look at the blinds.

No eye peering through. No shadow pressed against them. He was gone from the window.

A small, ridiculous wave of disappointment washed through her before she could strangle it. She shook her head, disgusted with herself. This was exactly what he wanted—her distracted, off-balance, wondering about him.

She stood to get coffee, a tactical retreat to reset her focus. As she passed the shared wall, she hesitated. Her hand hovered near the blind cord.

She pulled it.

The blinds shot up with a sharp whirr. His office was empty. The sleek chair was pushed back from the desk. The skyline glittered behind it, indifferent.

Of course. He’d gotten bored. Moved on to torment someone else, or more likely, to close a million-dollar deal. The thought should have been a relief. It felt like a door slamming.

She walked to the kitchenette, her heels too loud in the quiet aisle. The main bullpen was a hive of subdued activity, but eyes tracked her progress. She felt their curiosity like a physical touch. The woman who’d been in the CEO’s office for twenty minutes. The woman with the glass cage.

The coffee was burnt and bitter. She drank it anyway, leaning against the counter, staring at the stained tile floor.

“He’s in a meeting with Legal. Floor twelve.”

Rose looked up. A young woman with a sharp bob was refilling a water bottle, not looking at her. “Pardon?”

“The CEO. He’s not ignoring you. He’s in a binding arbitration. It’ll take hours.” The woman finally met her eyes, her expression carefully neutral. “People talk. They’re saying you’re his ex.”

“I’m not.”

“Good. He eats exes for breakfast.” The woman screwed the cap on her bottle. “The Veridian account is a career killer. Just so you know.” She walked away.

Rose stood alone with her bad coffee. The information was a gift and a weapon. He wasn’t watching. She had space. And he’d given her a poisoned chalice.

Back in her cube, she didn’t close the blinds. She left them open, a declaration to the empty office opposite. She worked. Deep, unbroken focus. The numbers sang for her. She found the flaw in the previous lead’s analysis—a cascading error in a foundational formula. It was the root of every missed deadline, every budget overrun.

Her phone buzzed, an internal message. The sender ID was S. CEO.

The text was just a location: Conference Room 3B. 6:15 PM.

She checked the time. 6:05. Her pulse jumped. She typed a single question: Agenda?

The reply was instantaneous: Veridian. Your progress. Don’t be late.

She saved her work, her hands suddenly cold. She gathered her tablet, her notes, the revised projections she’d built. This was it. The first test.

The hallway to Conference Room 3B was all dark wood and silent carpet. The door was ajar. She pushed it open.

The room was long, dominated by a polished table. The lights were dimmed, the city’s twilight glow painting the walls in shades of deep blue and amber. Scara stood at the far end, his back to her, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window. He’d shed his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was rolled to his elbows, the fabric pulling taut across his shoulders.

“Close the door,” he said, without turning.

She did. The click echoed. The silence in the room was absolute, pressurized.

He finally turned. The playful boy from behind the blinds was gone. This was the CEO again, his indigo eyes dark and assessing in the low light. He looked tired. A faint tension lined his mouth. The arbitration must have been brutal.

“Show me,” he said, his voice gravelly.

She approached the table, setting her tablet down. She launched into her findings, her voice steady, professional. She pointed to the flawed formula, showed her correction, displayed the new, clean projections. She spoke for five uninterrupted minutes.

He listened, arms crossed, leaning against the window frame. He didn’t move. Didn’t nod. Just watched her.

When she finished, the silence stretched. He pushed off the window and walked toward her, around the long side of the table. Not to look at the tablet. To circle her.

“You found it in four hours,” he said. His voice was closer now, just behind her right shoulder. “The last lead had it for four months.”

“It was an obvious error.”

“Only to someone with a mind like yours.” He stopped in front of her, on the other side of the table. He braced his hands on the polished surface, leaning forward. The scent of sandwood and long day was stronger here. “So. You’ve proven you can clean up a mess. Can you land the client?”

“The presentation is tomorrow. I’ll be ready.”

“We’ll be ready,” he corrected softly. “I’m taking the meeting with you.”

Her head snapped up. “Why?”

“Because Veridian’s CEO is a old-school bastard who doesn’t trust anyone under forty. My presence guarantees he’ll listen past the first slide.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “And because I want to see you in action.”

The air between them crackled, charged with the unspoken history of every competition they’d ever had. This was just another one. Bigger stakes.

“Fine,” she said.

“Fine,” he echoed, a ghost of his earlier smirk touching his lips. He straightened. “Dinner. We’ll prep.”

“I have my notes. I can prep alone.”

“You’re prepping with me. The car is downstairs.” He picked up his jacket from a chair, slinging it over his shoulder. He looked at her, waiting. “Unless you’re afraid you can’t keep up over a meal, either.”

It was the oldest trick in their book. The dare. Her brown eyes narrowed. She gathered her things, her movements crisp. “Lead the way.”

He held the conference room door open for her. As she passed, his hand came up. Not to touch her. To gesture toward the elevator bank. But his knuckles brushed the small of her back, a whisper of contact through her suit jacket.

She didn’t shiver this time. A slow, deep heat uncoiled in her stomach instead, settling low. She walked ahead, feeling his gaze on her back every step of the way to the elevator.

The elevator ride down was silent. He stood beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off his arm, but he didn't speak. Didn't look at her. Just watched the numbers descend.

The car was black and sleek, waiting at the curb. A driver held the door. Scara gestured for her to enter first, and she slid across the leather seat, settling into the cool interior. He followed, the door closing with a soft thud that sealed them in.

He gave the driver an address she didn't recognize. Then he turned to her, his indigo eyes scanning her face with an intensity that made her want to look away. She didn't.

"You're different," he said. Not a question. An observation.

"I'm the same person I've always been."

"No." He leaned back, his arm stretching across the seat behind her, not quite touching. "The Rose I knew would have flushed the moment I mentioned dinner. Would have stammered something about needing to go home."

"The Rose you knew was twenty-two and fresh out of university." She kept her voice flat. "I've had five years of boardrooms since then."

His eyebrow lifted. A slow, assessing movement. "So I noticed."

The car pulled through the city, streetlights painting his face in alternating gold and shadow. She watched the buildings blur past, refusing to meet his gaze. Her composure was a shield she'd forged in fire. She would not let him crack it.

"But you're right," she added, her tone lighter, almost casual. "I can't stay long tonight. I just moved today. My apartment is still a graveyard of unpacked boxes."

He didn't respond immediately. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the engine. Then, quietly: "You moved today?"

"This morning. Straight from the moving truck to your office."

A beat. His voice dropped, something unreadable in it. "And you still found the error in four hours."

She turned to look at him then. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those dark indigo eyes—held something she couldn't name. Not challenge. Not teasing. Something else.

"I don't half-ass things," she said.

"No," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to her eyes. "You never did."

The car slowed. The restaurant ahead was low-lit, intimate, its windows glowing amber against the night. The driver pulled to the curb.

Scara didn't move to open his door. He sat there, watching her, his hand still resting on the seat behind her, close enough that she could feel the ghost of his presence against her shoulder blades.

"One drink," he said. "We prep the Veridian pitch. Then I'll have the car take you home."

It wasn't a question. But it wasn't a command either. It was an offer, wrapped in the thinnest veneer of professionalism.

She met his gaze. Held it. "One drink."

He nodded once, then opened his door. The cold night air rushed in, sharp and clean. She followed him out, her heels clicking against the pavement, her heart steady and her mind clear. She was in control.

For now.

The restaurant was smaller than she'd expected—a private room in the back, a single table set for two, candlelight that turned the white tablecloth to honey. He'd clearly called ahead. Of course he had.

He pulled out her chair. She hesitated, then sat, the leather warm against her back. He circled to his side, settling across from her, close enough that their knees could brush under the table. She tucked her legs to the side.

A waiter appeared, silent and efficient. Scara ordered without looking at the menu—something French, something expensive—then leaned back, his eyes finding hers in the low light.

"The Veridian account," he said, his voice dropping into business mode. "Walk me through your fix."

She blinked. He was actually going to do this. Prep. Over dinner. Like a colleague.

She pulled out her phone, opened her notes. "The error was in the third-tier vendor reconciliation. They'd been double-counting a rebate from Q2. It cascaded through the P&L." She turned the screen toward him. "See the line here? That's the duplicate."

He leaned forward, studying the screen. His fingers brushed hers as he took the phone, a deliberate contact that sent a current up her arm. She didn't pull away. She didn't react. She held still.

"I see it," he said, his voice lower now. He handed the phone back. "You found it in four hours. My team spent three weeks on this."

"Your team was looking at the wrong thing." She slipped the phone into her pocket. "They assumed the error was in revenue. It was in cost."

His eyes sharpened. Something flickered there—respect, maybe. Or something else. "You always did see what others missed."

The words hung between them, heavier than they should have been. She looked down at the tablecloth, tracing the edge of her wine glass with her fingertip.

"I had a good teacher," she said quietly.

His breath caught. She heard it—the slight hitch, the pause. When she looked up, his expression had shifted. The smirk was gone. In its place, something raw, unguarded.

"You never said that before," he said.

"You never gave me the chance."

The waiter arrived with the first course, breaking the moment. Scara leaned back, his composure snapping back into place. But his eyes stayed on her, softer now, watching her lift her fork.

She took a bite. It was good—rich, complex, the kind of meal that demanded attention. She gave it the attention it deserved, letting the silence stretch.

He ate too, but his gaze kept returning to her. Measuring. Remembering. She could feel it like a touch, a warmth that settled low in her chest.

"You're not going to ask," she said finally, setting down her fork.

"Ask what?"

"Why I transferred. Why I didn't tell anyone I was coming."

He set down his own fork. The candlelight caught the edge of his jaw, softening the sharp lines. "I assumed you had your reasons."

"I did." She picked up her wine, took a slow sip. "I needed a fresh start. A place where no one knew my name."

"And instead you found me."

She met his gaze. "Instead I found you."

The words sat between them, heavy with everything unsaid. He didn't look away. Neither did she.

She didn't expect the laugh. It escaped her before she could stop it—a soft, breathy thing that surprised even herself. She shook her head, the memory surfacing unbidden: him in the back of their senior economics class, a paper ball bouncing off her textbook, his grin so wide and ridiculous she'd had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from breaking.

Scara's fork paused halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed, not with suspicion but with something warmer. "What?"

"Nothing." She pressed her lips together, but the smile lingered at the corners. "I just—" She stopped. Shook her head again. "You used to make the most absurd faces. In class. When the teacher wasn't looking."

His jaw tightened, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "I did not."

"You absolutely did. That one—" She gestured vaguely at her own face. "Where you'd cross your eyes and stick your tongue out slightly. Like a dying goldfish."

A beat of silence. Then he laughed—a real laugh, low and surprised, his shoulders relaxing. "I'd forgotten about that."

"I hadn't." She picked up her wine, the glass cool against her palm. "I spent four years trying not to laugh at you. It was exhausting."

He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. The candlelight caught the deep blue of his hair, softening the sharp lines of his face. "You never did. Laugh, I mean. You'd just glare harder."

"I was concentrating."

"On what?"

She held his gaze. "On not letting you win."

The words landed. Something shifted in his eyes—the playful glint deepening into something else. He didn't look away. His voice dropped, quieter now. "You never let me win. Not once."

"That was the point."

"I know." He said it simply, without edge. "It's why I kept trying."

The restaurant noise faded. The candle flame flickered between them, casting shadows across the white tablecloth. She could hear her own breathing, feel the warmth spreading through her chest.

"You were the only one who made me work for it," he said. "Everyone else—they either feared me or wanted something from me. You just wanted to beat me."

"I still do."

His smile returned, slower this time. "I know."

She set down her wine. Her heart was steady, but her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her fork. She forced them still. "So the Veridian account. You're actually going to let me run it?"

"I already assigned it to you." He picked up his own fork, twirling pasta around the tines. "The question is whether you want it."

"I want it."

"Good." He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. His eyes never left hers. "Then we have a lot of work to do."

"That drawing," she said, her voice carrying a warmth she hadn't intended. "I still remember it. You claimed it was a bird."

His fork paused mid-twirl. A muscle in his jaw twitched—not irritation, but something caught between embarrassment and amusement. "It was a bird."

"It had three legs."

"It was in motion."

"And a horn." She pressed her lips together, but the smile broke through anyway. "A bird with a horn. And what I can only describe as—" she gestured vaguely, "—dinosaur teeth."

He set down his fork. Leaned back. The candlelight caught the indigo of his eyes as he studied her, and for a moment the teasing edge faded, replaced by something quieter. "You kept it."

"I didn't keep it."

"You just described it in detail. Seventeen years later."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. The wine glass was cool against her fingers, and she focused on the weight of it, the stem between her thumb and forefinger. "I have a good memory."

"For disasters."

"Apparently."

He laughed again—that same surprised sound from earlier, as if she kept catching him off guard. "You know what I remember?"

"My many humiliations, I'm sure."

"No." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. His voice dropped, intimate. "I remember you didn't laugh. You unfolded that paper, looked at it, and your face went completely still. Like you were physically holding yourself back."

She remembered. The paper had been crumpled, the lines shaky—a child's attempt at something recognisable. She'd felt the laugh rising in her chest, hot and dangerous, and she'd swallowed it down so hard her throat ached. Because laughing at him would have meant admitting she found him funny. Admitting she was watching him at all.

"I was being polite," she said.

"You were being stubborn."

"Same thing."

His eyes held hers. The restaurant hummed around them—glasses clinking, low conversation—but it felt distant, muffled. "You always had that look," he said. "Like if you let yourself laugh, you'd lose something. Like it cost you something to enjoy anything."

The words landed somewhere soft, somewhere she kept guarded. She set down her wine. "Maybe it did."

"Did it?"

She could feel the shape of the question beneath the question. What are you afraid of losing now? She didn't answer it. Instead she picked up her fork, pushed a piece of pasta across her plate. "You drew better in high school."

"I took lessons."

"Clearly."

He smiled, and it reached his eyes. "You're deflecting."

"I'm eating."

"You're deflecting while eating."

She looked up. The smile she gave him was small, but real—a crack in the armor she'd worn since walking through his office doors. "Some habits don't change."

"No," he said, his voice soft. "They don't."

She set down her fork. The wine glass found her hand again, but she didn't drink. "The egg."

His smile widened—slow, wolfish. "You remember that too."

"It was on the whiteboard for three weeks." She shook her head, the memory surfacing unbidden: the entire class filing in, the collective pause, the stifled laughter. "Mr. Chen tried to erase it. It wouldn't come off. Someone had used permanent marker."

"I used permanent marker."

"I know."

He laughed, low and pleased. "I was trying to impress you."

The words hit her somewhere unexpected—a small, sharp impact. She lifted her wine, finally took a sip. "By defacing school property."

"You always noticed me when I was being disruptive. I figured I'd aim higher."

She studied him over the rim of her glass. The candlelight caught the edge of his jaw, the slight shadow beneath his cheekbone. "That was disruptive. That was—" she searched for the word, "—a cry for help, aesthetically speaking."

"It was a masterpiece."

"It was a biological impossibility."

"Art doesn't have to be possible." He leaned forward again, his voice dropping. "Art has to be remembered."

"I remember it."

"Exactly."

The word hung between them, weighted. She looked down at her plate, at the half-eaten pasta cooling in the candlelight. "You could have just talked to me."

"I tried." His voice was quiet now, stripped of its teasing edge. "You were always surrounded. Always busy. Always—" he paused, "—looking past me."

She looked up. His eyes held hers, and for a moment the restaurant fell away—the clatter of plates, the murmur of distant conversation—leaving only the space between them, charged and fragile.

"I wasn't looking past you," she said. The words came out softer than she'd intended. "I was trying not to look at all."

His breath caught. She saw it—the slight stilling of his chest, the way his fingers tightened on the tablecloth. "Why?"

She could feel the answer rising, unbidden, dangerous. She let it sit on her tongue, tasting it, before she spoke. "Because when I looked at you, I couldn't focus on anything else."

The silence that followed was not empty. It was full—pressed tight with years of unspoken things, of glances held a second too long in hallways, of competitive fire that burned hotter than it should have.

"Rose." Her name, from his lips, sounded different than it had in the office. Softer. Like a question he was afraid to ask.

"Don't," she said, but her voice had no edge. "Don't make this into something."

"It already is something."

She shook her head. Set down her wine. Pressed her palms flat against the tablecloth, grounding herself. "We have a presentation tomorrow. Veridian. That's what this is."

"That's what dinner is." His eyes never left hers. "This—" he gestured between them, "—is something else."

She held his gaze. The candle flickered. The space between them felt smaller than the table, smaller than the booth, small enough that she could feel the heat of him across the distance.

"Then we should finish dinner," she said, "and pretend tomorrow is all that matters."

He watched her for a long moment. Then he picked up his fork, and the mask slid back into place—but softer now, the edges worn thin. "Fine."

She picked up her fork too. The pasta was cold. She ate it anyway.

She didn't look up. Her fork traced a slow arc through the cold pasta, separating a strand from the rest. The candlelight caught the edge of her cheekbone, the curve of her jaw—but her eyes were hidden, fixed on the plate like it held answers she couldn't find elsewhere.

"Rose." His voice was careful now. Not teasing. Not sharp. Careful, like he was approaching something fragile. "What do you mean by that?"

She shook her head. A small motion. Her hair shifted, falling forward, obscuring more of her face. "It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"No." The word came out flat. Final. She pressed her lips together, and something shifted in her posture—a withdrawal, a closing off. The wine glass sat untouched at her elbow. The candle flickered between them, casting long shadows across the white tablecloth.

He didn't reach for her. Didn't push. Just watched, his indigo eyes tracking the way her shoulders curved inward, the way her thumb found the edge of her fork and pressed—hard enough to whiten the tip.

"There were other things," she said quietly. The words seemed to cost her something. "More important things. I didn't have time to—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I couldn't afford distractions."

"I was a distraction."

She didn't confirm it. Didn't deny it. Her silence was its own answer.

He leaned back, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight. His hands found the table's edge, fingers curling around it. "What kind of things?"

Her jaw tightened. "Family."

The word landed like a stone. She still didn't look up.

"My mother was sick." Her voice was barely audible now, scraped thin. "She needed—" A pause. A breath. "I had to take care of her. There wasn't room for anything else. Not for looking at boys in lecture halls. Not for letting myself wonder what it would be like if—" She stopped again. Shook her head. "It doesn't matter now. She's gone."

The silence that followed was different from the ones before. Heavier. The clatter of the restaurant seemed to recede, leaving only the space between them—the candle, the cold food, the weight of a confession she hadn't meant to make.

"Rose." Her name again, but different now. Rougher. "I didn't know."

"No one did." She finally lifted her gaze, and her eyes were dry but bright—bright with something she was holding back. "That was the point."

He held her stare. His hands had gone still on the tablecloth. "How long?"

"Three years. She fought hard." A ghost of a smile crossed her lips—bitter, fleeting. "I fought with her. We almost won."

"Almost."

"Almost doesn't count in the end." She picked up her wine, took a long sip. When she set it down, her hand was steady. "So I finished my degree. Took the first job that got me out of the city. Started over."

"And now you're here."

"And now I'm here." She met his eyes. "In a restaurant with the one person who used to make me lose focus. Eating cold pasta. Pretending tomorrow is all that matters."

He didn't look away. "What if it's not?"

"It has to be."

"Why?"

She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she set down her wine, straightened her spine, and the mask slid back into place—smoother now, practiced from years of wear. "Because I'm done losing things I can't afford to lose. And you—" she paused, "—you were never mine to keep."

The words hung between them, sharp and final. The candle flickered. Somewhere across the restaurant, a glass shattered, and a waiter laughed.

Scara didn't move. His eyes held hers, dark and unreadable. Then, slowly, he picked up his fork and returned to his cold pasta—and the silence between them became something else entirely.

Her voice cracked on the last word. She hadn't meant it to. The sound surprised her, a splinter in the polished surface she'd spent years smoothing over. She pressed her lips together, but the damage was done—the word hung in the air between them, fragile and bleeding.

Scara's fork stopped moving. He set it down slowly, the metal clicking against the plate with deliberate care. His indigo eyes hadn't left her face, and something in them shifted—a crack in the predator's mask, a flicker of something rawer.

"Rose."

She shook her head, still not looking up. Her fingers found the stem of her wine glass, traced the rim once, twice. "I came home and she was just—" A pause. Her throat worked. "She was on the couch. Like she was sleeping. The blanket I'd bought her for her birthday was pulled up to her chin. She'd folded her hands over her chest, like she wanted to look peaceful for me."

Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "She always worried about how I'd find her."

He didn't speak. The restaurant noise seemed to fade—the clatter of plates, the murmur of conversations, all of it receding into a distant hum. There was only the candle between them, the wine she wasn't drinking, the shape of her shoulders under her jacket.

"I sat with her for three hours before I called anyone." A bitter laugh escaped her, hollow and sharp. "I didn't want to let go of her hand. Stupid, right? She was already cold. But I kept thinking—if I held on long enough, maybe she'd wake up and tell me she was proud of me."

"Rose." His voice was rough now. Not the CEO. Not the rival. Just a man saying her name like it hurt.

"She never got to see me graduate." Her fingers tightened on the glass. "She never got to see me in a suit, walking into my first real job. She never got to meet anyone I—" She stopped. Swallowed. "She never got to see me happy."

The silence stretched. A waiter approached, saw their faces, and veered away.

Scara's hand moved across the table. Slow, deliberate—giving her time to pull back. His fingers stopped an inch from hers, not touching, just there. An offering.

"I didn't know," he said again. The words were different this time. Softer. "I spent four years trying to get under your skin, and I never once asked what was under it."

She looked up at that. Her eyes were bright, wet, but she held his gaze. "You weren't supposed to. That was the whole point."

"The point of what?"

"Of being untouchable." Her voice steadied, finding its footing. "If no one got close, no one could leave. No one could watch me fall apart and decide I wasn't worth the trouble."

His jaw tightened. His fingers stayed where they were, hovering near hers. "I wouldn't have—"

"You don't know that." She cut him off, but gently. "I don't know that. I made a choice, Scara. I chose survival. And it worked." She looked down at his hand, so close to hers. "I survived. I just didn't realize how much I'd have to give up to do it."

He watched her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned his hand over—palm up, open. Waiting.

"You're not giving up anything else tonight."

She looked up at him. The candlelight caught the wetness in her eyes, made them gleam like amber held to flame. His hand was still there—open, palm up, an invitation she didn't know how to read.

"You don't have to do this," she said quietly. "The pity dinner. The kind words. I'm not your charity case, Scara. I never was."

"I know." His voice was low, rough at the edges. "That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?"

He didn't answer immediately. His fingers curled slightly, then relaxed—a gesture of restraint, of holding back something he wasn't ready to name. "I don't know yet. But I know it's not pity."

She stared at his hand. The scar on his knuckle—she remembered that. He'd gotten it in tenth grade, punching a locker after losing a debate to her. She'd watched him bleed, watched him refuse to let anyone bandage it, watched him glare at her like she'd done it herself.

She'd never told anyone she'd thought about kissing it better.

"You're staring at my hand."

Her eyes snapped up. "I'm not—"

"You are." A ghost of his old smirk, softer now. "You always did that. When you were thinking about something you didn't want to say."

Heat crept up her neck. She reached for her wine, but her fingers brushed his instead—a lightning strike of contact, brief and electric. She pulled back like she'd been burned.

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

The words came out before he could stop them. His jaw tightened, and for a moment he looked almost frustrated—not at her, but at himself, at the crack in his own control.

"Scara." She said his name carefully, testing its weight. "Why did you really pull my file?"

He held her gaze. The silence stretched, filled with the distant clatter of the kitchen, the low murmur of other tables, the thrum of something unspoken between them.

"Because I never forgot you."

The words landed like stones in still water. Ripples spreading outward, disturbing everything they touched.

She didn't breathe.

"I tried." His voice was quiet, almost reluctant. "After graduation. I told myself it was just rivalry. Just competition. That you were an annoyance I was glad to be rid of." A pause. "But every time I interviewed someone, I was looking for your fire. Every time I closed a deal, I wondered if you'd be proud. Every time I walked into this office, I half-expected to see you sitting at a desk, ready to argue with me about something stupid."

Her throat tightened. "That's—"

"Pathetic?" A self-deprecating smile flickered across his lips. "Probably. But it's the truth."

She looked down at his hand. Still open. Still waiting.

Slowly, she reached out. Her fingers hovered over his palm—hesitating, trembling, a hair's breadth away from contact.

"If I take your hand," she whispered, "what happens tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow, you have a failing account to turn around." His voice was steady, but his eyes were anything but. "And I have a company to run. Nothing changes."

"And tonight?"

He didn't look away. "Tonight, you decide if you want to stop surviving."

Her fingers brushed his palm. Warm. Calloused. Real.

She didn't take his hand. She let hers rest there, light as a breath, her fingertips tracing the lines of his palm like she was reading a future she wasn't sure she wanted.

"I don't know how," she admitted. "I've been surviving so long I forgot what living feels like."

His fingers closed around hers, gentle but firm. "Then let me remind you."

Her fingers trembled over his palm. The air between them felt charged, thick with everything unsaid. She could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, could see the faint pulse beating in his wrist—steady, patient, waiting.

Then she let her hand fall.

The contact was electric. His fingers closed around hers instantly, reflexive, like he'd been holding his breath and finally allowed himself to breathe. She gripped back harder than she meant to—desperate, clinging, like he was the only solid thing in a world that had been spinning too fast for years.

He noticed. She felt his thumb brush across her knuckles, a gentle pressure that asked no questions, demanded nothing.

The first tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

She didn't make a sound. Didn't sob or shudder. Just a single drop, warm and treacherous, tracing a path she couldn't control. She turned her head slightly, hoping the candlelight wouldn't catch it, hoping he wouldn't see.

But he did.

Scara's hand tightened around hers. Not painfully—just enough to ground her, to say I'm here without words. His other hand moved slowly, deliberately, giving her every chance to pull away. His fingers brushed her jaw, tilting her face back toward him.

"Rose." Her name, soft. Almost reverent.

She didn't pull away.

His thumb caught the tear, wiping it away with a tenderness that cracked something open inside her chest. He didn't ask why she was crying. He didn't fill the silence with platitudes or reassurances. He just held her gaze, his indigo eyes dark and steady, and let her be seen.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she whispered. Her voice cracked on the last word.

"Neither do I." His thumb traced her cheekbone, featherlight. "But I know I don't want to stop."

She let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Her hand was still in his, their fingers interlaced now, her grip slowly loosening from desperate to something softer. Something like trust.

"You said you'd remind me what living feels like." Her voice steadied, though her heart was still racing. "How?"

He considered the question, his thumb still tracing slow circles on the back of her hand. "Small things, at first. Coffee that's actually hot. The sound of rain on a window when you don't have anywhere to be. Someone asking how your day was—and actually wanting to know."

"That sounds—" She stopped, searching for the right word. "Ordinary."

"Exactly." His smile was small, almost shy—a look she'd never seen on his face before. "You've been surviving big things for years. Maybe it's time to let the small things remind you you're alive."

She looked down at their joined hands. His thumb had stilled, resting warm against her skin. The candle flickered between them, casting shadows that danced across his features, softening the sharp lines of his jaw.

"I don't know how to do that," she admitted. "I don't know how to stop."

"Then don't stop." He lifted her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles—a gesture so gentle it made her breath catch. "Let me walk beside you while you keep going. You don't have to change everything tonight."

Her eyes burned again, but this time she didn't look away. She let him see the tears gathering, let him see the crack in her armor, let him see the woman who had been surviving for so long she'd forgotten what it felt like to be held.

"Okay," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Okay."

The waiter appeared like a ghost, materializing beside their table with the quiet efficiency of someone who knew exactly when not to interrupt. Scara didn't even look at the bill—just slid a black card into the leather folder, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I could have paid," she said, but her protest was half-hearted, the words muffled by the warmth still blooming in her chest.

"You could have." He signed the receipt with a quick, practiced stroke. "But you didn't."

Outside, the night air hit her skin like a cool balm, washing away the candle-warm haze of the restaurant. She stood on the sidewalk, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands now that his weren't holding them. The streetlights cast long shadows, and somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared.

"My car's parked a block over." He tilted his head, studying her. "Or did you want to walk?"

"I drove here." She fished her keys from her purse, the metal cold against her fingers. "To answer your earlier question—my apartment's about fifteen minutes east."

He nodded, a slow, deliberate motion. "Then I'll follow you."

The drive was short, silent except for the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of streetlights across her windshield. Every time she checked her rearview mirror, his headlights were there—steady, patient, a warm glow in the dark.

She pulled into the visitor parking spot of her building, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel. The boxes. The chaos. The half-assembled furniture she'd been meaning to deal with for three weeks.

His car parked beside hers. The headlights cut off. The engine died. And then he was standing outside her door, hands in his pockets, waiting.

She stepped out, the cool breeze tugging at a strand of hair that had escaped her updo. "Before we go up—" She held up a hand, stopping him mid-step. "My house is a total mess of boxes. I've been meaning to unpack, but work's been—" She waved vaguely, a gesture encompassing everything. "So. Don't judge, okay?"

A sound escaped him. Low. Unexpected. A laugh.

Her eyes snapped to his face. The laugh transformed him—softened the sharp edges of his jaw, crinkled the corners of those indigo eyes. It was genuine, surprised out of him, and it made something in her chest flutter.

"What?" She crossed her arms, a defensive smile tugging at her lips. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." He shook his head, still grinning. "I just—" Another quiet laugh. "I've never heard you say anything that wasn't perfectly composed. And now you're worried about boxes."

"They're *everywhere,*" she said, the words tumbling out. "I have a lamp balanced on a pile of books because I couldn't find the nightstand. My kitchen table is buried under paperwork. I think there's a coffee mug somewhere that's been growing mold for a week."

His smile didn't fade. If anything, it deepened. "Rose."

"What?"

"I don't care about the boxes."

She stared at him, searching for the lie, the tease, the familiar edge of mockery. But his eyes were soft, patient, holding nothing but warmth. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Okay." She turned toward the building entrance, her keys jingling in her hand. "But you were warned."

He fell into step beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his arm, the faint scent of his cologne—something woody and clean. "Warned noted."

The door swung open, and the warm light from inside spilled out onto the landing, illuminating the chaos she'd been dreading. Boxes. Everywhere. Stacked against walls, piled on the kitchen counter, forming a precarious tower beside the couch she'd barely managed to position in the center of the living room. A single lamp sat on a stack of books, casting a weak glow over the scene.

She stepped inside quickly, turning to face him with her arms crossed—a barrier, a warning. "I told you."

Scara followed her in, his gaze sweeping the room with a slow, deliberate appraisal. His expression didn't shift—no judgment, no amusement, just quiet observation. He stepped past her, his shoes clicking softly on the hardwood floor, and stopped in the middle of the space.

"You weren't exaggerating."

"I never exaggerate." She dropped her purse on the nearest flat surface—a box labeled *Kitchen Misc*—and busied herself with turning on another lamp, trying to soften the harsh overhead light. "I also wasn't lying about the coffee mug. It's somewhere in the sink. I'm afraid to look."

He turned, a slow pivot, his hands sliding into his pockets. "Show me."

She froze, her hand still on the lamp switch. "What?"

"Show me the mug." His voice was calm, almost teasing. "I want to see how bad it really is."

A laugh escaped her—unexpected, sharp, surprised out of her chest. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe." He didn't smile, but his eyes crinkled, just slightly. "But I'm curious."

She shook her head, turning toward the kitchen. The space was narrow, galley-style, with counters cluttered with mail, takeout containers, and a coffee maker that looked like it had been through a war. She reached the sink, peered inside, and winced.

"Don't look," she said, blocking his view with her body.

Too late. He was already behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his chest against her back, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple. He leaned past her, peering into the sink, and let out a low hum.

"That's... impressive."

"It's been a long week." She tried to step aside, but he didn't move, his arm braced against the counter beside her, boxing her in. "Scara."

"Rose." His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I'm not judging."

She tilted her head back, meeting his gaze. His indigo eyes were dark in the dim light, unreadable, but there was no mockery in them. Only a quiet intensity that made her breath catch.

"Then what are you doing?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Looking." His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a gentleness that made her stomach flip. "At you. In your space. Seeing you like this."

"Like what?"

"Human."

The word landed between them, heavy and warm. She held his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs—no, not hammering. Thudding. A deep, steady pulse that filled her chest, her throat, her fingertips.

"You've seen me human before," she said, but the words came out uneven, lacking conviction.

"No." He shook his head slowly, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "I've seen you composed. I've seen you sharp, brilliant, cutting. I've seen you cry. But I've never seen you like this—messy, uncertain, standing in a kitchen with a moldy coffee mug behind you."

"Stop describing the mug."

He laughed—that same low, unexpected sound from earlier—and the warmth of it washed over her, loosening something tight in her chest.

"I'm not describing the mug," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I'm describing you. And I like what I see."

Her breath caught. Her hand found the edge of the counter, gripping it for balance. "Scara—"

"I know." He stepped back, giving her space, his hands lifting in a gesture of surrender. "I'm moving too fast. But I've been waiting years to say that, and I don't want to waste another second pretending I'm not completely, utterly gone for you."

She stared at him, the words settling into her bones like a warmth she hadn't realized she'd been craving. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The moldy coffee mug sat forgotten behind her, the boxes loomed in the other room, and none of it mattered—not the chaos, not the mess, not the years of competitive history.

Only him. Only this.

She moved past him, her shoulder brushing his chest as she went, and picked up the box labeled *Clothes in Closets*. The tape was old, peeling at the edges, and she shifted it in her arms, testing the weight. "Well. I didn't mind too much. Anyway."

He watched her, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, that sharp jaw tilted in amusement. "You're deflecting."

"I'm organizing." She carried the box toward the hallway, her heels clicking against the hardwood. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" He followed, his footsteps unhurried, a predator giving his prey room to run. "Because it looked an awful lot like you heard me say something important and decided a cardboard box was a safer place to look."

She stopped at the bedroom door, her hand on the frame. The box pressed against her chest like a shield. "I heard you."

"And?"

"And I don't know what to do with it yet." She turned, meeting his gaze. The dim light from the hallway caught the deep blue of his hair, made his indigo eyes look almost black. "You dropped a bomb in my kitchen, Scara. I'm still picking up the pieces."

Something shifted in his expression—the teasing edge softened, replaced by a quiet patience that looked strange on his sharp features. "Then take your time." He stepped closer, stopping just out of reach. "I'm not going anywhere."

Her breath stuttered. She tightened her grip on the box, her fingers pressing into the cardboard. "You have an office. A company. A life."

"I have all of that." His voice dropped, intimate, meant only for the space between them. "And I have tonight. And I have tomorrow morning, if you'll let me."

The box felt heavier. Or lighter. She couldn't tell. Her pulse thudded in her throat, a steady, insistent drum. "You're serious."

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life." He didn't move closer, didn't reach for her. He just stood there, hands loose at his sides, waiting. "I told you. I'm completely, utterly gone for you. That doesn't go away because you pick up a box."

A laugh escaped her—nervous, unsteady, her composure cracking at the edges. "You're going to make this very hard for me, aren't you?"

"Yes." He smiled, that sharp, devastating smile she remembered from every competition, every argument, every moment she'd tried to forget. "I'm going to make it impossible for you to ignore me. I'm going to be patient, and persistent, and infuriatingly present until you stop running."

"I'm not running."

"You just picked up a box labeled *Clothes in Closets* and carried it to a room that doesn't have a closet."

She looked down. The box in her arms. The bedroom door in front of her. The room beyond, which she knew—because she'd unpacked enough of it—had a single narrow wardrobe, not a closet.

"Fuck," she whispered.

He laughed, low and warm, and the sound wrapped around her like a hand at the small of her back. "Rose."

"Don't." She set the box down, her cheeks flushing. "Don't you dare say it."

"I wasn't going to say anything." He stepped closer, closing the distance until she could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the crisp, clean scent of his cologne. "I was just going to stand here. And wait."

She looked up at him. His face was close—too close—his indigo eyes dark and deep, his lips parted slightly, his breath warm against her forehead. Her hands hung at her sides, trembling, and she didn't know if she wanted to push him away or pull him closer.

"I don't know how to do this," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I don't know how to let someone in. I've spent so long building walls, I don't remember what it feels like to not have them."

"Then let me help you find out." His hand lifted, hovering near her cheek, giving her time to pull away. When she didn't, he cupped her face, his palm warm and rough against her skin. "One brick at a time."

She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch despite every instinct screaming at her to step back. His thumb traced her cheekbone, slow and gentle, and she felt something crack open in her chest—a fissure in the armor she'd worn for years.

"Scara."

"I'm here."

She opened her eyes. His face was inches from hers, his gaze soft, patient, waiting. The boxes loomed around them, the chaos of her unpacked life spread out like a map of everything she'd been running from.

And he was still here.

She rose on her toes, her lips brushing his—featherlight, a question more than a statement. His breath caught, his hand sliding into her hair, and he kissed her back, soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world.

She deepened the kiss, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer. His hand tightened in her hair, a low sound escaping his throat, and for a moment she let herself sink into it—the warmth of his mouth, the solid weight of him against her.

Then she pulled back.

Her face burned. She couldn't look at him, couldn't meet those indigo eyes that would see too much. Instead she stared at the box. *Clothes in Closets.* The tape was curling at the edges, the cardboard soft from humidity.

"Well." Her voice came out rough. She cleared her throat. "Let's do it now, at least."

She bent down, scooped the box into her arms, and walked into the bedroom before he could say anything. The room was small, the single narrow wardrobe standing open and empty, wire hangers clinking softly. She set the box on the bed and tore at the tape, her movements sharp, efficient, anything but calm.

Behind her, she heard him step into the doorway. He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just stood there, a presence she could feel against her skin like a second layer of heat.

She pulled open the box. Folded blouses, neat and color-coded, the way she'd packed them a lifetime ago. She grabbed one, shook it out, and carried it to the wardrobe.

"You don't have to watch me unpack," she said, her back to him.

"I know." His voice was low, quiet. "I want to."

She hung the blouse. Her fingers trembled slightly as she smoothed the fabric. "It's boring."

"It's not." A pause. "It's you."

She reached for another blouse, this one a deep burgundy silk that slipped through her hands like water. She fumbled it, caught it, and hung it crooked. Her cheeks burned hotter.

"I'm going to mess this up," she said, barely audible. "I'm going to say the wrong thing. Or do the wrong thing. Or—"

"Rose."

She stopped. Her hand hovered over the box.

"Look at me."

She didn't want to. She wanted to stay here, with her back to him, with the safety of boxes and hangers and the mundane work of making a space hers. But her body betrayed her, turning slowly, her eyes lifting to meet his.

He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light from the hall, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes were soft. Vulnerable. The mask had slipped somewhere between the kitchen and this room, and what remained was just him.

"I'm not asking you to be perfect," he said. "I'm asking you to be here. With me. That's all."

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight. "That's all?"

"That's everything."

She took a step toward him. Then another. The box sat forgotten on the bed, the wardrobe half-filled, the chaos of her unpacked life spread around them like a confession.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she whispered.

"Neither do I." He smiled, a small, crooked thing that made her chest ache. "But I'd rather figure it out with you than know it with anyone else."

She reached him. Her hand lifted, hovering near his chest, and then settled against his shirt, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm.

"One brick at a time," she said.

"One brick at a time." He covered her hand with his, his fingers warm and sure. "I can be patient."

She laughed, a soft, broken sound. "Liar."

"I can learn."

She turned back to the box, her fingers finding the edge of the cardboard. The burgundy silk still hung crooked in the wardrobe, a small rebellion she'd have to fix later. She reached in again, pulling out a stack of folded blouses—white, cream, pale blue—and set them on the bed.

Her hand brushed something soft. Lace. She froze.

The box was only half-filled with clothes. The rest—her face went hot, then hotter, a flush climbing her neck and staining her cheeks. Nestled beneath the folded blouses, packed with the same meticulous care, were her undergarments. A black lace bra, the straps tangled. A matching thong, delicate and absurdly impractical. A silk camisole in deep plum, the fabric catching the light.

She snapped the box closed.

The sound was loud in the quiet room.

Behind her, she heard him shift. She didn't turn. Couldn't. Her hands pressed flat against the cardboard, as if she could seal the contents back into oblivion through sheer will.

"Rose." His voice was low, curious. "What was that?"

"Nothing." Too fast. Too sharp. "Just—nothing. Clothes."

A pause. She could feel his gaze on her back, a physical weight, warm and invasive.

"Clothes you didn't want me to see."

"No." She kept her eyes on the box. "I mean yes. I mean—" She squeezed her eyes shut. "It's nothing. Really."

His footsteps. One. Two. Closer.

"Rose." His voice was right behind her now, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, could smell the faint cedar and something sharper, something that was just him. "Show me."

"No."

"Rose."

She shook her head, her grip tightening on the box. "It's embarrassing. It's stupid. Just—give me a minute."

His hand landed on her shoulder, light, questioning. She felt the warmth through her blouse, and her breath stuttered.

"I'm not going to laugh," he said.

"You will."

"Try me."

She turned, slowly, the box still clutched against her chest like a shield. He stood close, too close, his indigo eyes scanning her face with that sharp, unnerving attention. His eyebrow arched, a silent challenge.

She swallowed. "It's just—underwear, okay? I forgot I packed it with the work clothes. It's not a big deal."

His expression didn't change. But something flickered in his eyes—amusement, yes, but softer. Warmer. He reached past her, his fingers brushing hers as he lifted the box from her grip.

"Hey—"

He set it on the bed. Opened it. His gaze dropped to the contents, and she watched his jaw tighten, just a fraction, before he looked back at her.

"Lace," he said, his voice rougher than before.

Her face burned. "Shut up."

"Plum silk." He pulled the camisole out, letting it drape over his hand, the fabric pooling like water. "Expensive taste."

"Scara—"

"I like it." He set the camisole down, careful, deliberate. "You in lace. You in silk. The thought of you in any of this." His eyes met hers, steady, intent. "I like it a lot."

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His words hung in the air between them, intimate and unhurried, and she felt her knees go weak.

"You're supposed to be helping me unpack," she managed.

"I am." He smiled, slow and dangerous. "I'm helping you feel less embarrassed about what's in your box."

She laughed, a breathless, helpless sound. "That's not helping."

"No?" He stepped closer, his hand finding her waist, his thumb tracing a slow arc over her hip. "Then tell me what would."

Her breath caught. His voice had dropped, gone dark and low, and the shift hit her like a physical thing—a current running under her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. She watched his eyes change, the indigo deepening, something predatory surfacing behind the amusement.

"Scara." His name came out breathless, a warning she didn't mean to give. "Don't—"

"Don't what?" He stepped closer, his hand still warm on her hip, his thumb pressing just hard enough to feel through the silk of her blouse. "Don't make a mess?"

Her face burned hotter. She tried to step back, but her heel hit the bed frame, and she had nowhere to go. He followed, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the faint pulse at his throat.

"You said it yourself." His head tilted, that sharp, assessing look she remembered from every debate, every exam, every time he'd cornered her in the library. "You've been surviving. Not living." His hand slid from her hip to her waist, fingers spreading, claiming territory. "Let me help you with that."

"Scara—"

"I'm not going to rush you." His voice was velvet over steel. "But I'm also not going to pretend I don't want you."

She couldn't look away. His eyes held hers, steady and dark, and she felt the floor drop out from under her. Her hands came up, pressing flat against his chest—not to push him away, but to steady herself. His heartbeat under her palm, strong and quick.

"This is insane," she whispered.

"Probably." He smiled, but it was softer now, almost tender. "Does that mean you want me to stop?"

She should say yes. She should step around him, close the box, pretend tonight had never happened. She should protect the walls she'd spent years building, the careful distance she kept between herself and anyone who might see too much.

She didn't say yes.

His smile widened, knowing, and he leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear. "That's what I thought."

Her fingers curled into his shirt, gripping the fabric. "You're insufferable."

"And you're blushing." His breath was warm against her skin. "Down your neck. All the way to your chest."

She shuddered. He noticed—she felt him notice, felt the slight change in his breathing, the way his hand tightened on her waist.

"I want to kiss you again," he said, his voice rough. "But I want to do it right this time. Slow. Thorough."

Her eyes fluttered closed. "Scara—"

"I want to taste you." His lips grazed her jaw, featherlight. "I want to feel you fall apart."

Her knees buckled. He caught her, his arm sliding around her back, pulling her against him. She felt him—hard and ready, pressing against her hip—and the reality of it, the heat of it, sent a pulse of need straight through her.

"Rose." His voice cracked on her name. "Tell me to stop. Right now. Or I'm not going to be able to."

She opened her eyes. His face was close, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with want and restraint. He was giving her the choice. Giving her the exit.

She lifted her hand, touched his cheek. His stubble rough under her fingers.

"Don't stop," she said.

His mouth found hers.

Not the careful, testing kiss from before. This was deliberate, claiming—his hand sliding into her hair, tilting her head back as he pressed her harder against the bed frame. She gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sweeping in, tasting her like he'd been starving for it.

Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and the heat of him—solid and real and *wanting*—made her dizzy. He groaned, low in his chest, and the vibration traveled through her, settling somewhere deep and aching.

"Rose." Her name, broken against her mouth. "Tell me again."

"Don't stop." She heard her own voice, rough and desperate. "Please."

His breath hitched. Then his hands were moving—one still tangled in her hair, the other sliding down her side, fingers pressing into the curve of her waist, her hip, the swell of her thigh. He gripped her leg, hitching it up around his hip, and the shift pressed him harder against her. She felt every inch of his want, the heat of him through their clothes, and her body answered—a pulse of wet heat, a shudder she couldn't control.

"Fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to hers. "You feel that?"

She nodded, unable to speak.

"That's what you do to me." His voice was wrecked. "Every time you walk into a room. Every time you look at me like you want to argue. Every time you smile." He kissed her again, softer this time, almost reverent. "I've been hard for you since the office."

Her cheeks burned, but she didn't look away. She wanted to see him like this—undone, raw, the mask stripped away. She wanted to be the one who did this to him.

"Scara." She reached for his belt, her fingers trembling. "I want—"

"I know." He caught her wrist, gentle but firm. "But we're not doing this against a bed frame."

She blinked, disoriented. "What?"

He stepped back, pulling her with him, leading her toward the bedroom proper. The boxes loomed around them, her chaotic life spread across the floor, but he didn't seem to see any of it. His eyes were fixed on her, dark and intent.

"We're doing this somewhere you can lie down." He stopped beside her bed—still unmade, sheets tangled from the night before. "Somewhere I can take my time."

Her heart hammered. She watched him shrug off his jacket, let it fall to the floor. Then his hands went to his tie, loosening it slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Get on the bed," he said, his voice low. "And take off your blouse."

She lifted her hands to the first button of her blouse.

His tie came undone, silk sliding through his fingers. He let it drop.

Her fingers worked slowly, deliberately, the pearl buttons slipping through buttonholes one by one. She didn't look down. She held his gaze, watching the way his eyes darkened with each inch of skin revealed.

He reached for the top button of his shirt. Undid it. Then the next. His collarbone emerged, pale against the stark white fabric, and she felt her mouth go dry.

The third button of her blouse came free. The lace edge of her bra caught the dim light.

His hands paused. His eyes tracked down, then back up, slower this time. "Keep going," he said, his voice rough.

She did. Fourth button. Fifth. The fabric parted, falling open to reveal the curve of her breasts, the dark lace that barely contained them. Her skin flushed under his gaze.

He shrugged off his shirt. It fell to the floor behind him, and she saw him—really saw him—for the first time. The breadth of his shoulders. The lean muscle of his chest, the trail of dark hair that disappeared below his belt. A scar, thin and white, ran along his ribs.

She wanted to trace it with her tongue.

Her blouse slipped from her shoulders. She let it fall, standing before him in nothing but her skirt and bra, her heels still on. His breath caught audibly.

"Rose." Her name, barely a whisper. His hand reached out, fingers brushing her collarbone, trailing down to the lace. He didn't push it aside—just touched, featherlight, tracing the edge where fabric met skin.

She shivered. He watched her shiver, and something possessive flickered in his eyes.

His belt came undone with a metallic click. The sound was loud in the quiet room. He pulled it free, slow, letting it slide through the loops, then dropped it beside his shirt.

Her hands went to her skirt. The zipper. The slide of fabric down her thighs. She stepped out of it, and now she was bare except for the bra and the thin scrap of lace at her hips.

He undid his trousers. Pushed them down. His boxer briefs did nothing to hide his want—the hard length of him, straining against the fabric. She couldn't look away.

"See what you do to me?" His voice was low, wrecked. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. His hand found her waist, fingers pressing into her hip. "All those years of wanting to win against you. And now I just want to lose myself in you."

She reached for the waistband of his boxers. He caught her wrist again, but this time he guided her hand lower, pressing her palm against him through the fabric. She felt the heat, the hardness, the way he pulsed under her touch.

His breath shuddered. "Touch me," he said, his voice cracking. "Please."

Her fingers trembled against the waistband of his boxers. She slid her hand inside, slow, the fabric giving way to heat—scorching, immediate. Her palm met the smooth, velvet length of him, and she winced quietly as her fingers found the wet tip, slick and aching against her touch.

His breath left him in a shudder. "Rose." Her name cracked on his lips, raw and broken.

She wrapped her hand around him, feeling the weight, the pulse beneath her fingers. He was hard, impossibly so, the skin hot and silken over the rigid length. Her thumb traced the tip, spreading the moisture, and his hips jerked involuntarily.

"Fuck." His hand found her wrist, not stopping her, just holding on. "That's—" He couldn't finish.

She moved her hand slowly, exploring the shape of him, the way he filled her grip. Every twitch, every shudder that ran through his body, she felt it—felt the power of it, the trust. He was undone beneath her touch, the commanding CEO reduced to trembling need.

His forehead pressed against hers, eyes squeezed shut. "You're going to kill me."

She stroked him again, slower, watching his jaw clench, the cords of his neck straining. A bead of moisture gathered at the tip, and she spread it with her thumb, feeling him pulse against her.

His hand left her wrist, sliding into her hair, tilting her face up. His eyes opened—dark, desperate, searching hers. "I need to feel you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "All of you."

She didn't answer with words. She reached behind her back, fingers finding the clasp of her bra. It came undone with a soft click, and she let the straps slide down her shoulders, the lace falling away.

His gaze dropped to her breasts, bare and flushed in the dim light. He made a sound low in his throat—not a word, just want given voice. His hand moved, palm cupping her, thumb brushing across her nipple. She gasped, the touch electric.

"Lie down," he said, guiding her back onto the tangled sheets. She went willingly, her legs parting as he settled between them. The weight of him, the heat of him, pressed against her through the thin lace of her panties.

He looked down at her, his chest rising and falling too fast. "I've imagined this," he admitted, his voice rough. "More times than I'll ever tell you."

Her hand found the back of his neck, pulling him down. "Then stop imagining."

He kissed her—deep, claiming, all the years of tension pouring into the press of his lips. His hand slid down her body, over her stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. He pulled them down, slow, the fabric dragging over her hips, her thighs, until she was bare beneath him.

He broke the kiss, looking down at her. His eyes traced the length of her body—breasts, stomach, the dark curls between her thighs. "God," he breathed. "You're beautiful."

She reached for him, her hand finding his length again, guiding him. The tip pressed against her, hot and slick, and they both froze.

"Tell me you want this," he said, his voice shaking. "Tell me you want me."

She looked up at him—this man who had infuriated her, challenged her, haunted her for years. "I want you," she said. "I've always wanted you."

He pushed inside her, slow, inch by inch, and she felt herself stretch to take him, the fullness of it stealing her breath. He buried his face in her neck, a sound torn from his throat—relief, wonder, desperate need.

He pushed deeper. The word "balls deep" became a physical truth—the press of him against her cervix, the way her body opened to accept all of him, the fullness so complete she couldn't tell where she ended and he began. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down, and his mouth crashed against hers—desperate, hungry, passionate.

The kiss was different now. Not tender. Not exploratory. It was claiming. His tongue slid against hers, teeth grazing her lower lip, and she tasted the years of wanting on his breath. She bit back, hard enough to make him groan into her mouth.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His indigo eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, the sharp line of his jaw tight. "You feel that?" His voice was wrecked, barely there. "That's ten years of wanting you."

She couldn't answer. He was still inside her, throbbing, and every small movement sent a ripple of sensation through her core. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers.

"Rose." Her name again, broken on his lips. He started to move—slow, deliberate, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, filling her completely. The rhythm was devastating. Each stroke pressed against something deep inside her, pleasure building like a wave she couldn't stop.

Her nails dug into his shoulders. "Scara—"

"I know." His voice was rough. "I feel it too."

He picked up the pace, his hips driving into hers with a rhythm that was older than words. The sound of their bodies—wet, rhythmic, desperate—filled the small apartment. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard knocking against the wall.

Her head fell back, her throat exposed. He buried his face there, lips pressing against her pulse point, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. She felt the mark he was leaving, and she wanted it. Wanted everyone to see.

"Harder," she breathed. "Please."

He obeyed. His thrusts grew deeper, faster, the angle changing until he was hitting that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling, and he groaned against her neck.

"I'm close," he said, his voice strained. "Rose, I'm—"

"Not yet." Her voice was sharp, commanding. "Not without me."

He laughed—a broken, desperate sound. "Bossy even now." But he slowed, his hips rolling instead of pounding, drawing out the pleasure until she was trembling, her thighs shaking around him.

His hand slid between their bodies, fingers finding her clit. She gasped, her hips bucking against his touch. He circled her slowly, watching her face, his eyes dark and hungry.

"Come for me," he said, his voice low, commanding. "Let me feel you."

She shattered. The orgasm ripped through her, her body clenching around him, and he followed a second later, his groan muffled against her shoulder as he spilled inside her, his hips pressing deep, holding nothing back.

They lay there, tangled, breathing ragged. His weight was heavy on her, grounding her, and she didn't want him to move. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on his back, feeling the sweat cooling on his skin.

He lifted his head, his indigo eyes soft now, the sharp edges of his CEO mask gone. "That wasn't just sex," he said quietly.

She met his gaze. "No. It wasn't."

He kissed her forehead, gentle, and she felt something shift between them—something that had been waiting for a decade to finally settle into place.

She was still tangled in him, her cheek pressed against the damp skin of his chest, when the thought surfaced. It clawed up from somewhere dark, a splinter she couldn't ignore. Her fingers stopped their lazy tracing on his back.

"Scara." Her voice was quiet. Different. He felt it immediately, his arm tightening around her.

"Yeah?"

She pulled back just enough to look at him. His indigo eyes were soft, sated, nothing like the sharp CEO who had cornered her in his office. She almost didn't want to break it. But she had to know.

"Are you... betraying someone else? Because of me?"

His brow furrowed. "What?"

She pushed herself up on one elbow, the sheet slipping down her shoulder. "When I went to get coffee, and you were at that meeting. A woman came up to me. Jessica, I think. She asked if I was another of your exes. Or wives." The word tasted wrong in her mouth.

Scara's expression shifted. Not guilt. Something colder. His jaw tightened, the sharp line of it cutting through the softness of the moment.

"Jessica," he repeated. Flat.

"She seemed to know you. Intimately." Rose watched his face, searching for a crack. "She said it like she'd asked before. Like there was a pattern."

He sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around his waist. The warmth between them cooled. He ran a hand through his dark blue hair, and when he looked at her, his eyes were hard—not with anger at her, but at something else.

"There's no one else, Rose." His voice was low, steady. "There never has been."

She wanted to believe him. The words landed clean, no hesitation, no tell. But Jessica's face lingered—the possessive curl of her lip, the way she'd said his name like a claim.

"Then who is she?"

He exhaled. Long. Slow. "My assistant. She's been with the company for three years. She's... developed feelings. I've never encouraged them."

"But she thinks she has a claim."

"She thinks a lot of things." His hand found hers, fingers threading together. "I've never touched her. Never wanted to. I've never touched anyone the way I've touched you."

Rose looked down at their joined hands. His thumb traced a slow circle on her knuckles.

"She's jealous," he continued, his voice rougher now. "Every time a woman gets close to me, she finds a way to push them away. I should have fired her months ago."

"Why didn't you?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Because I didn't care enough to bother. No one mattered enough to make it worth the paperwork."

His eyes met hers. Dark. Intense. Vulnerable in a way she'd never seen.

"You matter."

The words hung between them, heavier than anything else that had passed that night.

The morning light filtered through the blinds, striping the office floor in pale gold. Rose smoothed her skirt as she walked, the fabric still warm from Scara's iron—he'd insisted, pressing the creases out while she finished her coffee, his hands sure and deliberate. She'd watched him, the way he treated her clothes like they mattered, and something in her chest had tightened.

Beside her, Scara moved with the same sharp confidence, but different. His coat hung perfectly, the shoulders aligned, the collar crisp in a way it never was. She'd fixed it before they left, straightening the lapel, and he'd stood still for it, letting her. His hair caught the light, the deep blue almost black, smooth and silky, falling exactly right. She'd run her fingers through it that morning, and he'd closed his eyes, leaning into her touch.

"The Veridian projections," he said, his voice low and professional, carrying just enough for the open floor to hear. "They'll want to see the revised Q3 numbers."

"Already prepared." She matched his tone, crisp and efficient. "I adjusted the margin calculations based on the raw material cost shift."

He glanced at her, a flicker of approval in his indigo eyes. "Good."

The office opened before them, rows of desks filled with the hum of keyboards and low conversations. Heads turned. A coffee mug paused halfway to someone's lips. The assistant at the front desk froze, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Rose felt the weight of every gaze. She kept her chin high, her stride unhurried. Beside her, Scara didn't acknowledge them at all—his attention fixed ahead, on the glass-walled cabins at the far end, side by side, full view of each other through the transparent partitions.

They passed Jessica's desk. The woman sat rigid, her pen gripped too tight, her jaw a hard line. Her eyes tracked them—tracked Rose—with a heat that could have melted steel. Her gaze flicked to Scara's coat, the perfect press of it, then to his hair, the unnatural smoothness. Something clicked behind her eyes. Something ugly.

Rose didn't slow. She didn't look away. She let Jessica see her see her, and then she turned her attention back to Scara, her voice carrying just enough to reach the woman's desk. "I'll have the revised deck on your desk by noon."

"Make it eleven." He held the door to his cabin open for her, his hand brushing the small of her back—barely a touch, a ghost of contact, but the entire office saw it. "I want to review before the call."

She stepped inside, and he followed, the door clicking shut behind them. The glass walls offered no privacy, every movement visible to the floor. She turned to face him, and his mask slipped for just a second—a warmth in his eyes that wasn't for the office.

"You're enjoying this," she murmured.

"I'm enjoying watching her squirm." He set his briefcase down, not looking at the door. "She's been running this office with passive aggression for three years. It's nice to see her meet someone who doesn't flinch."

"I don't flinch."

"I know." He said it like a fact, like something he'd catalogued and kept. He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne, the faint trace of her own shampoo on his skin. "You never did."

Outside, through the glass, Jessica stood. Her chair scraped back, loud in the sudden silence. She walked toward the break room, her heels sharp and angry, and Rose watched her go, something cold and satisfied settling in her chest.

"She's going to make this difficult," Rose said.

Scara's hand found hers, hidden below the desk, his thumb pressing into her palm. "Let her."

Rose settled into her new cabin, the glass walls offering a clear view of Scara's space across the aisle. She kept her posture straight, her hands moving deliberately over her keyboard, but her attention kept drifting to him—the way he tilted his head reading a document, the way his fingers tapped against his desk in a rhythm she recognized from university. He looked up once, caught her watching, and his mouth curved into that familiar smirk. She looked away first, heat prickling her neck.

He stood, smoothed his jacket, and disappeared toward the washroom. The door swung shut behind him, and Rose let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The office hummed around her, keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the mundane rhythm of corporate life that felt foreign now, after everything.

The door to her cabin opened without a knock.

Jessica stood there, her expression carefully neutral, her hand still on the handle. She stepped inside like she owned the space, her heels silent on the carpet, and closed the door behind her with a soft click. The glass walls trapped them in plain view of the entire floor, but Jessica didn't seem to care.

Rose's fingers stilled over the keyboard. She met Jessica's gaze evenly, her voice cool and precise. "Excuse me, miss. It would have been better if you knocked first. How can I help you?"

Jessica smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you needed an appointment to welcome someone to the branch." She stepped closer, her arms crossing loosely, her posture casual in a way that felt deliberate. "I just wanted to introduce myself properly. I'm Jessica, the CEO's executive assistant. If you need anything—supplies, scheduling, directions—I'm the person to see."

"Noted." Rose turned back to her screen, her fingers resuming their work. "I'll keep that in mind."

Jessica didn't leave. She stood there, a beat too long, her gaze sweeping the cabin—the neat desk, the single framed photo Rose had placed near the monitor, the jacket hung carefully on the back of her chair. "You settled in quickly," Jessica said, her tone light, almost complimentary. "Most transfers take a week to find their rhythm. You've been here... what, two days?"

"I adapt fast."

"Clearly." Jessica's smile tightened. "You must have made quite an impression on Mr. Scarameow. He's not usually so... hands-on with new transfers."

Rose's jaw tightened. She kept her voice even. "Is there something specific you needed, Jessica?"

The woman's smile flickered. For a moment, something raw and ugly surfaced in her eyes—a flash of jealousy so sharp it cut through the professional mask. Then it was gone, smoothed over with practiced ease. "No. Just welcoming you to the team." She turned toward the door, her hand reaching for the handle. "I hope you enjoy your time here. It's a demanding office. Not everyone lasts."

"I'll take my chances."

Jessica paused, her back to Rose. "One piece of advice, from one woman to another." She glanced over her shoulder, her voice dropping low. "Scara has a type. Smart. Ambitious. Broken. He likes fixing things. But once they're fixed, he gets bored." She opened the door. "Don't mistake his attention for something permanent."

The door clicked shut behind her.

Rose sat very still, her hands frozen over the keyboard. Her pulse hammered in her throat, but she didn't let it show. She watched Jessica walk back to her desk, her stride confident, her head high, and something cold coiled in Rose's chest.

Through the glass, she saw Scara return from the washroom. He paused at his desk, his eyes finding hers immediately. He tilted his head, a question in his gaze—*what happened?*

Rose held his look for a long moment. Then she turned back to her screen, her fingers finding the keys, and began typing. She didn't look at Jessica again. She didn't need to.

The woman had already shown her hand.

Rose watched through the glass as Jessica approached Scara's cabin. The woman's hips swayed with practiced precision, her blouse unbuttoned one button too many, her hair falling in calculated waves. She didn't knock. She pushed the door open like she owned the keycard, stepping inside without invitation.

Scara's head lifted from the papers on his desk. His expression didn't change—flat, professional, the mask he wore for everyone. But Rose saw his jaw tighten, a muscle jumping beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone.

"Aww! Scraaa!~" Jessica's voice carried through the glass, sweet and syrupy, pitched to reach. "You little! You didn't give me a good morning kiss today!~"

She leaned over his desk, her blouse gaping, her hand reaching for his tie. Her eyes flicked to the side—to Rose's cabin—before settling back on Scara, heavy-lidded and deliberate. A performance. Every inch of it.

Scara didn't move. His hand caught Jessica's wrist before she could touch his tie, his grip gentle but firm, stopping her mid-reach. "Jessica." His voice was calm, unhurried, the voice of a man who'd ended a hundred conversations before they started. "We've discussed this."

"Discussed what?" Jessica's pout was theatrical, her lower lip pushing out. "I'm just being friendly. You used to like my friendly."

"Used to." He released her wrist and turned back to his papers, his attention sliding away from her like water off glass. "Close the door on your way out."

Jessica's smile froze. For a split second, something cracked behind her eyes—humiliation, hot and raw—before she smoothed it over, her chin lifting. She straightened, adjusted her blouse, and walked out of his cabin with her head high, her heels sharp against the carpet.

She didn't look at Rose. But Rose saw her hands clench into fists at her sides as she passed.

The break room door swung shut behind Jessica, and silence settled over the office floor. A few heads lifted, glanced around, then dropped back to their screens. The rhythm of work resumed, keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the space where tension had been.

Rose's fingers found her keyboard again, but she didn't type. She watched Scara through the glass, watched him read the same line of a document three times without turning the page. His pen was still in his hand, frozen above the margin, not moving.

He looked up. His indigo eyes found hers through the glass, and something passed between them—a question, an apology, a promise. He held her gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he set his pen down and stood.

He walked to his door, opened it, and crossed the aisle toward her cabin. The entire floor watched him go, their curiosity barely concealed behind monitors and half-turned heads. He didn't knock either. He just walked in and closed the door behind him.

Rose leaned back in her chair, her arms crossing loosely, her voice dry. "You're going to give them something to talk about."

"They already have something to talk about." He didn't sit. He stood by her desk, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine." She said it too fast, and they both heard it. She looked down at her keyboard, her throat tightening. "She's just... territorial."

"She's jealous." He said it flatly, without malice, like a fact he'd already processed. "And she's been getting away with that behavior for too long. It ends today."

Rose looked up. "What does that mean?"

He didn't answer. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and typed something quickly—a message, short and decisive. Then he slipped it back into his pocket and met her eyes. "It means I should have handled it months ago. Before you got here."

Rose's chest tightened. She didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them, warm and heavy.

Through the glass, the break room door opened. Jessica stepped out, her phone in her hand, her face pale. She stared at the screen, then looked up at Scara's cabin—empty—then at Rose's cabin, where he stood. Her expression shifted, something cold and knowing settling into her features.

Rose watched her watch them. And for the first time that morning, she felt something other than satisfaction.

Rose's eyes stayed locked on Jessica's face as the woman began walking toward the cabin. Her heels struck the carpet with deliberate precision—each step measured, each sway of her hips calculated. The phone in Jessica's hand was dark now, but her jaw was set, her shoulders squared, and there was something dangerous in the way she held her chin.

Scara followed Rose's gaze, turning toward the door. His hand moved—a fraction of an inch, a protective gesture he probably didn't notice—before he caught himself and let it drop.

"She's coming here," Rose said. She kept her voice flat, neutral, the tone she used when a negotiation was about to turn hostile.

"I know."

"Should I brace for impact?"

Scara's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "She's not stupid enough to make a scene in front of me."

The door swung open without a knock. Jessica stood in the frame, her smile fixed in place, her eyes flicking between them like she was cataloging every inch of space between their bodies. "Sorry to interrupt." She didn't sound sorry. "HR needs your signature on the Veridian restructure, Scara. Urgent."

"Email it."

"They need a physical signature. Policy change." Jessica's smile didn't waver. "I tried to tell them you'd prefer digital, but—" She shrugged, a small, helpless gesture that didn't reach her eyes. "You know how compliance gets."

The silence stretched. Rose watched Scara's jaw tighten, watched him calculate the cost of refusing, watched him decide it wasn't worth the fight.

"Fine." He turned to Rose, his voice dropping, softer now, meant only for her. "I'll be five minutes."

"Take ten." Rose picked up her pen, turning back to her screen. "I have emails."

His hand brushed her shoulder—barely a touch, a whisper of contact that lasted less than a second. Then he was gone, following Jessica out of the cabin, the door clicking shut behind them.

Rose watched them walk across the floor. Jessica's hand found Scara's arm as they walked, her fingers curling around his bicep like she had a right to be there. He didn't pull away. But he didn't lean into it either—his stride unchanged, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed forward.

Rose's grip tightened on her pen. The plastic creaked under her fingers.

She forced herself to look away, to focus on the glowing rectangle of her monitor, on the unread emails piling up in her inbox. But her eyes kept drifting to the glass, to the reflection of the office behind her, to the empty space where Scara had been standing.

The break room door opened. Jessica stepped out alone, her phone pressed to her ear, her voice low and urgent. She didn't look at Rose. She walked past the cabin without a glance, disappearing into the corridor that led to the executive wing.

Rose's chest tightened. Something was wrong. She could feel it in the air, in the way the office hummed just a little too quietly, in the way the junior staff kept their heads down, their shoulders hunched, their eyes fixed on their screens.

She reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over Scara's contact. Then she stopped. Set it down. Picked up her pen instead.

She would give him five minutes. Then she would find out what the hell was going on.

Rose counted to thirty. Then she stood, her chair sliding back without a sound, and walked out of her cabin.

The office floor stretched before her, a maze of cubicles and glass walls, the fluorescent hum filling the silence left by the absence of conversation. Heads stayed down as she passed. No one met her eyes. The air felt wrong—too still, too careful, like the room was holding its breath.

She didn't know where Scara's office was. She'd never needed to find it before. But the executive wing was obvious enough, a corridor branching off the main floor, its entrance marked by a frosted glass door with a keypad beside it.

Rose stopped at the door. Through the frosted pane, she could see movement—two silhouettes, one tall and sharp-shouldered, the other curving closer than it should. Jessica's voice, muffled but audible, filtered through the glass.

"—just trying to protect you."

"I didn't ask for your protection." Scara's voice, flat and cold.

"You didn't have to. I've been doing it for three years, Scara. Longer than she's been here. Longer than she—"

"That's enough."

Rose's hand hovered over the keypad. She didn't have the code. She didn't need it. She knocked instead, three sharp raps that cut through the muffled argument like a blade.

The silhouettes stilled.

The door swung open. Jessica stood on the other side, her face a mask of professional composure that didn't quite hide the fury in her eyes. "Ms. Nakamura. This is a private meeting."

"I'm aware." Rose didn't step back. She held Jessica's gaze, her voice calm, measured, the tone she used when a negotiation was about to end. "I need a word with the CEO."

"He's busy."

"He's not." Scara's voice came from behind Jessica, low and certain. "Let her in."

Jessica's jaw tightened. For a moment, Rose thought she might refuse. Then she stepped aside, her shoulder brushing the doorframe as she moved, her eyes never leaving Rose's face.

Rose walked past her without looking back. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing them in.

Scara stood behind his desk, his hands braced against the polished wood, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. His tie was loosened, the top button of his collar undone. He looked like a man who'd been interrupted mid-storm, his chest rising and falling too fast, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"You didn't have to come." His voice was rough, scraped clean of its usual polish.

"Yes, I did." Rose stopped a few feet from his desk, close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on the edge of the wood. "What did she say to you?"

"Nothing I didn't already know."

"That's not an answer."

He looked up at her, his indigo eyes searching her face like he was looking for something he'd lost. "She told me you're a liability. That your transfer was a punishment, not a promotion. That the old CEO sent you here because you were too good, too ambitious, too dangerous to keep in the main office."

Rose's breath caught. She forced it out slowly, evenly, her hands folding in front of her. "And you believed her?"

"No." He pushed off the desk, rounding it slowly, his steps deliberate, measured. "But I needed to hear you say it."

"Say what?"

"That you're not here to replace me."

The words hung between them, heavy and raw. Rose stared at him, at the vulnerability he was letting her see, the crack in his armor that he'd never shown anyone else.

She stepped forward, closing the distance until she was close enough to smell his cologne, to see the pulse beating in his throat. "I'm not here to replace you, Scara. I'm here because I was sent here. And I stayed because of you."

His hand found hers, his fingers lacing through hers, warm and steady. "Then we have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"The kind that starts with Jessica and ends with HR." He squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her palm. "She's already filed a complaint. Conflict of interest. Fraternization between management."

Rose's stomach dropped. "When?"

"Ten minutes ago. While I was signing her paperwork."

"Show me." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "The complaint."

Scara's jaw tightened, but he reached for a folder on his desk, the crisp paper rustling as he flipped it open. He turned it toward her, his fingers splayed across the edge like he was bracing himself. Rose stepped closer, her eyes scanning the typed lines, the formal language that reduced everything between them to a liability. *Conflict of interest. Fraternization between management. Undue influence on company operations.*

Her thumb pressed against the edge of the paper, hard enough to leave a dent. "This is absurd."

"It's procedure." Scara's voice was flat, clinical. "She followed protocol. Witness signatures, timestamps, a formal request for investigation." He paused, his indigo eyes meeting hers. "She's thorough."

"She's jealous."

"That too." A ghost of a smile crossed his lips, there and gone. "But it doesn't change the fact that the complaint exists. HR will have to review it. They'll interview us separately. They'll ask questions we can't answer without admitting—" He stopped, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck, a gesture she remembered from university, when he was about to say something he didn't want to.

"Admitting what?" Rose pressed.

"That we're involved." He said it like it hurt, like the words themselves were a confession he hadn't been ready to make. "That I kissed you. That I stayed the night. That I walked into this office this morning smelling like your shampoo."

Rose's breath caught. She hadn't thought about that—the small evidence, the traces they'd left on each other. His shirt, still faintly carrying her scent. The mark on her collarbone, hidden beneath her blouse, that she'd checked three times in the bathroom mirror.

"Then we tell them the truth." She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. "We're both adults. We're both single. There's no policy against two consenting adults—"

"There is when one of them is the CEO and the other was transferred from the main office under suspicious circumstances." He cut her off, his voice sharp, then softened immediately. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. But Jessica knows what she's doing. She framed this as a power imbalance. As a potential coercion case."

The word landed like a slap. *Coercion.* Rose's stomach turned. "That's not—"

"I know." He stepped closer, his hand reaching for hers again, his fingers warm and steady. "I know. But perception matters more than reality in an investigation. And if they decide to dig, they'll find your transfer file. They'll find the notes from your old CEO. They'll find every reason to believe I had you brought here deliberately."

"Didn't you?"

The question hung between them, raw and unguarded. Scara's hand stilled on hers, his indigo eyes searching her face, something shifting in their depths.

"No," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I wanted to. When I saw your name on the transfer list, I wanted to believe it was fate. That after all these years, the universe was finally giving me a second chance." He let out a breath, his thumb tracing the curve of her knuckles. "But it wasn't fate. It was your old CEO getting rid of a problem. And I was too blind to see it because I was too busy wanting you."

Rose's chest ached. She stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to see the tension in his jaw, the vulnerability he was letting her see. "Then we fight it. Together."

"If we fight it together, they'll use that as evidence. That I'm influencing you, that you're not acting independently." He shook his head slowly. "The only way to protect you is to distance ourselves. Publicly. Until the investigation is closed."

"No."

"Rose—"

"No." She pulled her hand free, her voice rising. "I didn't spend three years watching my mother die alone while I fought for a career I didn't even want, only to let some jealous assistant dictate who I can and can't—" She stopped, her breath catching, the words spilling out faster than she could catch them.

Scara's eyes widened. He stared at her, the silence stretching between them, heavy and charged.

"Your mother," he said slowly. "You never told me she died."

Scara's hand dropped from the folder. His indigo eyes fixed on her, something raw and unguarded passing through them. "Three years ago. When I called you, that last time."

Rose's throat tightened. She remembered that call. The way his voice had sounded almost hesitant, almost tender, before she'd cut him off with a clipped "I'm busy" and hung up. She'd been at the hospital. Her mother had just stopped breathing for the second time that week.

"I was at St. Mary's," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "She'd been in and out of remission for two years. The last time, it just... didn't take."

Scara's jaw worked, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck again. "You never told anyone. I checked. After the graduation ceremony, I asked around. No one knew where you'd gone. No one knew why you'd left."

"Because I didn't want them to know." Rose's voice cracked, just slightly. "I didn't want the pity. I didn't want the awkward silences. I didn't want people looking at me like I was broken."

"You weren't broken." He said it like a fact, like something he'd known for years. "You were surviving."

Rose's eyes burned. She blinked, hard, forcing the tears back. "I was surviving. That's all I've done for three years. Survive. Work. Move forward. Don't look back."

"And then you walked into my office."

"And then I walked into your office."

Scara stepped closer, his hand finding hers again, his fingers warm and steady. "The graduation ceremony. You said you'd tell me what happened after everyone left."

Rose's breath hitched. She remembered that day. The sun had been too bright, the speeches too long, the cap and gown too heavy on her shoulders. She'd stood in the empty auditorium, watching the janitor sweep up confetti, waiting for him.

"My mother died the night before," she said, the words falling out like stones. "I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. I put on that gown and I walked across that stage because she would have killed me if I'd missed graduation for her."

Scara's hand tightened on hers. "Rose—"

"Don't." She shook her head, her voice trembling. "Don't say you're sorry. Everyone says they're sorry. I don't want sorry. I want—"

She stopped, the word catching in her throat.

"What?" His voice was barely a whisper. "What do you want?"

"I want you to hold me."

The words hung between them, raw and desperate. Scara's arms wrapped around her before she could breathe, pulling her against his chest, his hand cradling the back of her head. She pressed her face into his shoulder, her body shaking with the tears she'd held back for three years.

"I've got you," he murmured against her hair. "I've got you."

Rose clung to him, her fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She'd spent so long being strong, being professional, being untouchable. And here, in his arms, she was just a girl who'd lost her mother and didn't know how to stop running.

Scara held her until her shaking subsided, his hand tracing slow circles on her back. When she finally pulled back, her eyes red, her mascara smudged, he reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

"You don't have to be strong," he said. "Not with me."

Rose let out a shaky breath. "I don't know how to be anything else."

"Then let me teach you."

His lips found hers, soft and warm, tasting of salt and something sweeter. Rose melted into him, her hands sliding up his chest, her fingers tangling in his dark blue hair. The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth.

Her body crumpled against his chest, the sobs wracking through her with a force that shook them both. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his jacket, knuckles white, as if letting go meant falling into something she couldn't climb back out of.

"Rose." He said her name like a prayer, his arms tightening around her, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other pressed flat against her spine. "I'm here. I'm right here."

"Why me?" The words came out broken, muffled against his shoulder. "I did everything right. I worked harder than anyone. I smiled through every meeting. I showed up. Every. Single. Day." Her breath hitched, a raw, ragged sound. "And I still lost her. I still lost everything."

Scara's throat tightened. He pressed his lips to her hair, his eyes burning.

"And now this." Rose pulled back just enough to look at him, her face streaked with tears, her usual composure shattered beyond recognition. "Jessica. The complaint. The possibility of losing you—" Her voice broke on the last word. "I can't. I can't lose you. Not after last night. Not after you—"

She couldn't finish. Her hand came up, pressing against his chest, right over his heart. "You got through, Scara. After all these years of you annoying me, challenging me, making me want to strangle you—you got through. And now they're going to take it away."

His jaw worked, a muscle twitching beneath the surface. He didn't have words. Not yet. So he let his hands speak instead, one sliding down to her waist, the other cupping her tear-wet cheek, his thumb wiping at the mascara streaking her skin.

"You're not losing me," he said, low and fierce. "Do you hear me? You're not losing me."

"You can't promise that." Her voice was barely a whisper. "HR. The board. If they decide—"

"Then I'll burn it all down."

Her eyes widened, the tears still falling. "Scara—"

"I mean it." He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm on her lips. "I spent ten years wondering where you went. Ten years replaying that night in my head, wondering what I could have done differently. And then you walked into my office, and I realized—" He stopped, his voice cracking. "I realized I never stopped waiting for you."

Rose's breath stuttered. Her hand trembled against his chest.

"I'm not letting you go," he said. "Not because of Jessica. Not because of HR. Not because of anyone." His fingers tightened in her hair, gentle but unyielding. "You broke through my walls too, Rose. And I'm not rebuilding them."

She stared at him, her red-rimmed eyes searching his face, looking for the lie, the hesitation, the crack she'd learned to expect from everyone. She found none.

A fresh sob escaped her, but softer this time, something loosening in her chest. She pressed her face into the hollow of his neck, breathing him in—his cologne, the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his pulse beneath her lips.

"I'm scared," she admitted, the words barely audible. "I'm so scared."

"I know." He held her tighter, his voice a low rumble against her ear. "Me too."

She laughed, a wet, broken sound. "You? Scared? The man who never lost a debate, never backed down from a challenge, never—"

"Never had anything worth losing." He pulled back, his indigo eyes meeting hers, raw and unguarded. "Until now."

Rose's heart seized. She reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw, tracing the sharp line of it like she was memorizing him. "What do we do?"

"We stay." His hand covered hers, pressing her palm flat against his cheek. "We fight. And we don't let anyone tell us this isn't real."

She nodded, a shaky exhale escaping her lips. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." She leaned in, pressing her lips to his, soft and salt-stained and desperate. "But if you let me go—"

"I won't."

"—I'll make sure your next coffee has decaf for the rest of your life."

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

Rose pulled back just enough to look at him, her face a mess of tears and smeared mascara. Her hand stayed pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath her palm. "I mean it." Her voice cracked, raw and desperate. "I can't do the distance thing. Not the careful looks across the room. Not the whispered conversations in hallways. Not pretending we're strangers when everyone's watching."

His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, wiping at the wetness. "Rose—"

"No." She shook her head, a fresh sob escaping. "You don't understand. I spent years building walls. Years convincing myself I didn't need anyone. And then you—" Her breath hitched. "You tore them down. All of them. And now I'm standing here with nothing between us, and I can't—" She stopped, her jaw clenching. "I can't rebuild them. I won't."

Scara's indigo eyes softened, the sharp edges of his CEO mask gone. He cupped her face in both hands, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "I'm not asking you to rebuild anything."

"Then don't look at me like I'm just an employee." The words tumbled out, fierce and broken. "Don't walk past me in the hallway like last night didn't happen. Don't—" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't make me feel like I'm alone again."

He pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm on her lips. "I won't."

"Promise me." Her fingers curled into his shirt, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her upright. "Promise me that when we're in a room full of people, you'll look at me the way you're looking at me now."

His throat worked, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Rose."

"I don't care about the consequences." Her eyes met his, red-rimmed and fierce through the tears. "I don't care about Jessica. I don't care about HR. I don't care about any of it. But I can't—" Her voice broke again. "I can't survive being close to you in private and distant in public. That's worse than losing you completely."

Scara's arms tightened around her, one hand sliding to the small of her back, the other cradling the back of her head. He pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering there, his breath uneven. "Then we'll figure it out."

"How?" Her hand came up, gripping his wrist. "How do we figure this out?"

"I don't know yet." He pulled back, his indigo eyes boring into hers. "But I'm not letting you go. Not in private. Not in public. Not ever."

She stared at him, searching for the lie, the hesitation. There was none. Just the raw, unguarded truth of a man who'd spent ten years waiting for her to walk back into his life.

Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, but they were lighter now, softer. She let out a shaky breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly in his arms. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." She pressed her lips to his, a soft, salt-stained kiss that tasted of relief and fear and something that felt dangerously like hope. "But if you ever—"

His phone buzzed on the desk, cutting her off. The screen lit up with a name: Jessica Chen - HR.

Rose's body went rigid in his arms.

Her breath hitched, a small, strangled sound caught in her throat. Her eyes glassed over, tears threatening to spill again as she stared at the phone's screen. The name pulsed there, a virus in the quiet of the room.

She pulled away, just an inch, her body already folding inward. "No," she whispered, the word fragile, cracking at the edges.

His hand caught her wrist before she could retreat further. Firm. Gentle. "Rose."

She shook her head, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. "I can't—not yet. Please. Just give me one more minute before—"

He didn't let her finish. His arm hooked around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, her back to his front. His chin dropped to her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. "Then we take it."

Her body trembled, her hands coming up to grip his forearm where it crossed her stomach. "She's going to take you away from me." The words came out wet, barely audible.

"No one's taking me anywhere." His lips brushed her ear, a whisper that felt more like a vow. "Look at me."

She turned her head, her cheek pressing against his. Their faces close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his indigo eyes, the tiny micro-expressions that betrayed the mask he wore for everyone else.

"I told you I'd fight." His voice was low, steady, a rock in the middle of her breaking. "That hasn't changed because of one phone call."

"But Jessica—"

"Is a variable." His thumb traced a slow arc on her hip. "Not the outcome."

Rose's breath shuddered out of her. She let her eyes close, letting herself feel the solid weight of him around her. The phone buzzed again, a second notification.

His thumb never stopped moving.

"What if they transfer me back?" she whispered. "What if they separate us anyway?"

His arms tightened. "Then I transfer too."

She laughed, a broken, disbelieving sound. "You can't just—"

"I can." His voice was iron. "My company. My rules. If they want to play games, I'll burn that bridge and build a new one with you on the other side."

She pulled back enough to face him, her hands coming up to frame his jaw. Her thumbs swept over his cheekbones, smearing the wetness there that was hers or his—she couldn't tell anymore. "You'd really do that?"

"I'd do worse." His eyes held hers, unblinking. "I'd walk into that office tomorrow, hand Jessica her walking papers, and dare HR to stop me."

"Scara—"

"I'm not losing you again." His hand came up, covering hers on his face. "I spent ten years trying to forget you. I don't have another ten in me."

Rose's lower lip trembled. She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his, their tears mixing where they touched. The phone sat silent now, its screen dark, the threat waiting.

"Okay," she breathed. "Okay."

His arms pulled her close again, crushing her against him, his hand cradling the back of her head like she was something precious. She buried her face in his chest, breathing him in, letting his heartbeat drown out the sound of a future that hadn't been written yet.

His fingers closed around the phone, the movement deliberate, unhurried. Rose watched his thumb hover over the screen, the name still glowing there like a warning light. Her breath caught, and she pressed her lips together to keep from begging.

He swiped to answer. "Chen." His voice was calm, almost pleasant. The mask was back, smooth and impenetrable. He didn't look at Rose.

A pause. She could hear the tinny murmur of Jessica's voice on the other end, too quiet to make out words. Scara's jaw tightened, just a fraction.

"I see." His eyes found Rose's, holding them. "I'll be down in ten minutes."

He ended the call without waiting for a response. The phone clattered onto the desk, the sound too loud in the silence.

"She wants a meeting." He said it flatly, already reaching for his jacket draped over the chair. "Now."

Rose's stomach dropped. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. "I'll come with you."

"No." He was already moving, shrugging into the jacket, adjusting his collar. The gesture was automatic, practiced. "You stay here."

"Scara—"

He stopped at the door, one hand on the frame. He turned, and for a second the mask cracked. His eyes softened, the hard line of his mouth loosening. "I made you a promise. Let me keep it."

She wanted to argue. Every instinct screamed at her to follow, to stand beside him, to face whatever came. But the look in his eyes stopped her. It was pleading, almost. A quiet request for trust she didn't know if she could give.

"Five minutes." She forced the words out. "If you're not back in five minutes, I'm coming down."

He almost smiled. "Ten."

"Seven."

His lips twitched. He pulled the door open, and then he was gone, the click of the latch sealing the silence behind him.

Rose stood alone in the office, the hum of the building pressing in around her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat she couldn't quiet. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold, and stared at the closed door.

Her eyes drifted to the phone on his desk. Dark screen. Waiting.

She crossed to the window, looking out at the city skyline. The lights of the buildings flickered against the gray afternoon. Somewhere down there, Scara was fighting for them. For her.

She pressed her palm flat against the cold glass, her breath fogging the surface. "Don't do anything stupid," she whispered to the empty room.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fumbled for it, heart leaping into her throat. A text from an unknown number: Stay put. I handle this. She let out a shaky breath, the tightness in her chest loosening a fraction.

She typed back: I'm not going anywhere.

Then she sat down in his chair, the leather still warm from his body, and waited.

The door opened.

Rose's breath caught, her fingers digging into the leather armrest as Scara stepped through. His jacket was off, draped over one arm, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. The fluorescent light caught the sheen of sweat on his brow, and his jaw was set so hard she could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin.

She was on her feet before she knew she'd moved. "What happened?"

He didn't answer. He crossed to the desk, dropped the jacket over the back of his chair, and stood there for a long moment, his back to her. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"Scara." Her voice came out smaller than she meant. She took a step toward him, then stopped. "Please."

He turned. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but there was something looser in his shoulders. A tension she hadn't realized he'd been carrying had bled out of him, leaving him almost... tired.

"She withdrew the complaint." His voice was flat, clinical. "Signed a statement admitting she fabricated the timeline."

Rose's knees nearly buckled. She gripped the edge of his desk, the wood cool and solid under her palms. "How?"

"I showed them the security footage from last night. The timestamp on the elevator log. The card swipe at the front desk." He ran a hand through his hair, messing the dark blue strands. "It was recorded. Every step we took. Every door we opened."

Her stomach turned. "They watched us?"

"Only the lobby and the hallway. Not—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "Not inside. But it was enough. Jessica's complaint said you were in my office for two hours before the dinner. The footage shows you arrived at seven, left at seven-fifteen, and didn't come back until after midnight."

Rose exhaled, a shuddering sound she couldn't control. "So it's over?"

Scara's eyes met hers. Something flickered there—relief, maybe, or something rawer. "It's over. She's been transferred to another branch. Effective immediately."

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Her hand came up to cover her mouth, and she felt the trembling start in her chest, spreading outward until her whole body shook. "I thought—" Her voice cracked. "I thought I was going to lose you."

He crossed the distance in two steps. His hands found her arms, warm and steady, pulling her into him. She went willingly, her face pressing into the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him—sweat and soap and something underneath that was just Scara.

"I told you." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "I made a promise."

She pulled back just enough to look at him. His indigo eyes were soft now, the hard edges smoothed away. She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the faint stubble there.

"Seven minutes," she said, a shaky laugh escaping her.

His lips quirked. "It was nine. I cut it close."

She kissed him. It wasn't gentle—it was desperate, hungry, a collision of relief and fear and wanting that had nowhere else to go. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her tighter, and she felt the tension of the past hour finally, finally begin to unspool.

When they broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers. "I need a drink," he murmured. "And a shower. And about eight hours of sleep."

"That's a long list." Her fingers curled into his shirt, not ready to let go.

"Start with the drink." He pulled back, his hand finding hers, lacing their fingers together. "I know a place. Quiet. No video cameras."

Rose let him lead her to the door, her hand small and warm in his. She glanced back at the office—at the desk, the phone, the ghost of the past hour—and then stepped through, following him into whatever came next.

The bar was tucked between a laundromat and a closed-down bookstore, its entrance so narrow she would have walked past it on her own. Scara held the door, his hand brushing the small of her back as she stepped inside—a touch so brief she could have imagined it, but she didn't.

The air hit her first: old wood, whiskey, and something floral from a candle guttering on the counter. A jazz track played low, the brass soft and distant. The place was nearly empty—a man in a wrinkled coat at the far end of the bar, a couple in a booth speaking in murmurs.

Scara led her to a corner booth, the leather cracked and worn, and slid in across from her. His hands came to rest on the table, palms flat, fingers spread. She watched him exhale—a long, slow breath that seemed to pull the last hour out of him.

A server appeared, a woman in her fifties with graying hair and a knowing smile. "The usual, Scara?"

"Double," he said. He looked at Rose. "What do you want?"

She ordered a gin and tonic, and the server nodded and disappeared. The silence between them was different now—not the stiff, waiting silence of his office, but something softer, like a held breath finally released.

"The usual," Rose repeated, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "How often do you come here?"

"Often enough." He leaned back, his shoulders settling into the booth. "It's the only place within a mile that doesn't have cameras."

The drinks arrived. Two glasses, condensation beading on the sides. Rose took a sip—cold and sharp, the gin cutting through the lingering tightness in her throat.

"I owe you an apology," he said, his voice lower now, stripped of the CEO authority. "For dragging you into that."

She shook her head. "You didn't drag me. I walked in on my own."

"Still. Jessica had been circling for weeks. I should have seen it coming." He turned his glass, watching the liquid swirl. "I put you in a position where you had to defend yourself. Where we both did."

Rose reached across the table, her fingers brushing his knuckles. He went still, his eyes lifting to hers.

"You fought for me," she said. "You didn't have to. You could have let her win."

"No." The word came out rough, raw. "I couldn't."

She let her hand stay, her thumb tracing a slow line across his wrist. His pulse beat against her skin, steady and real.

"I spent ten years trying to forget you," he said, his voice barely above the jazz. "Every time I saw a woman with dark hair in an updo, I'd look twice. Every time someone laughed the way you did, I'd stop." He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "Pathetic, right?"

Rose's chest ached. "I looked for you too. In conference rooms, in airport lounges, in the back of my head when I couldn't sleep." She pulled her hand back, wrapping it around her glass. "I thought I'd imagined it. The way I felt around you."

"You didn't."

She looked at him. The dim light caught the edge of his jaw, the dark blue of his hair shading almost black. His indigo eyes held hers, unflinching, open.

"What happens now?" she asked.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, tapping the screen once before sliding it across the table. It was a calendar—tomorrow's date circled in red.

"Veridian meeting," he said. "Ten AM. You and me, in the conference room." His mouth curved, the first real smile she'd seen since the office. "After that, dinner. Real dinner. No HR complaints."

Rose picked up his phone, reading the entry. Veridian review – Nakamura & CEO. She set it down, her fingers lingering on the edge of the screen.

"And after dinner?"

His smile deepened, something warm and unguarded flickering in his eyes. "We figure it out. Together."

She lifted her glass, and he met it with his own. The clink was soft, swallowed by the jazz and the murmur of the bar. She took a long drink, letting the cold burn settle in her chest, and when she set the glass down, his hand was waiting for hers on the table.

She took it.

She watched him turn his glass, the amber liquid catching the dim light. "You asked what I remember," he said, his voice dropping. "From school."

Rose's fingers tightened around her glass. "I didn't ask."

"You were thinking it." He looked up, and something in his expression shifted—the CEO mask slipping, revealing the boy she'd argued with in lecture halls. "I remember the first time I saw you. Third-year corporate law. You walked in late, your hair already in that updo, and you sat in the front row like you owned the room."

"I was terrified," she said. "That class had a thirty-person waitlist."

"You didn't look terrified. You looked like you'd already read the syllabus, the textbook, and the professor's published papers." His mouth curved. "You had."

She didn't deny it.

"I remember the debate," he continued. "Second semester. You argued against my position on antitrust regulation, and you dismantled every point I made. In front of two hundred students." He let out a quiet laugh. "I was furious. And impressed. Mostly furious."

"You didn't show it." She remembered his face that day—cold, controlled, his jaw tight. "You just nodded and sat down."

"Because I couldn't let you see." His eyes held hers, unflinching. "You were the first person who ever made me work for it. Made me sweat. And I hated you for it." He paused. "I also couldn't stop thinking about you."

Rose's chest tightened. She took a drink, the gin burning, grounding her. "I remember your laugh," she said, her voice quieter than she meant. "You didn't laugh often. But when you did—" She shook her head. "It was real. Unguarded. I'd spend entire lectures trying to earn it."

Something flickered in his indigo eyes—surprise, maybe, or recognition. "You never succeeded."

"I know." She set down her glass. "That's why I kept trying."

The jazz played on. The server passed, refilling water glasses, and neither of them looked away.

"I remember your perfume," he said. "First day of our final year. You walked past me in the corridor, and I stopped breathing." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "I went home and tried to find it. Walked through three department stores, sniffing every counter like an idiot."

Rose's lips parted. "You never said anything."

"What would I have said?" His voice was low, rough. "'Hey, I've spent three years pretending to hate you, but actually I know what perfume you wear'?" He shook his head. "I was a coward."

"You weren't a coward," she said. "You were scared. So was I."

The silence between them stretched, filled with everything they hadn't said for a decade.

Scara reached across the table, his hand covering hers, warm and solid. "I'm not scared anymore," he said. "Not of this."

Rose looked down at their hands—his fingers laced through hers, the cracked leather beneath them, the condensation from her glass pooling on the wood. She looked back up at him, at the darkness pooling in his eyes, at the man who'd haunted her for years.

"Neither am I," she said.

The corner of Scara's mouth lifted. "Do you remember the mock trial in our second year? You cross-examined that witness so hard she started crying."

Rose winced, but a laugh escaped her. "She was lying. I just proved it faster than she expected."

"She was the professor's daughter."

"I know." She grinned, the memory sharp and vivid. "You were the one who passed me a tissue when she broke down. Subtle, under the table."

His eyes glinted. "I was trying to get you to stop. You were too ruthless."

"I was right."

"You were." He leaned back, his hand still covering hers, his thumb tracing slow circles on her wrist. "Do you remember the prank war during finals week?"

Rose's cheeks heated. "You replaced my notes with blank paper."

"You replaced my coffee with decaf the morning of my corporate law presentation." His voice dropped, mock-offended. "I was twitching for three hours. I thought I was losing my mind."

"You were losing your composure." She tilted her head, letting the smile soften. "It was worth it. You stumbled twice in front of Professor Chen."

"He never let me forget it." Scara's thumb stilled, his gaze holding hers. "You were the only person who could do that. Get under my skin."

"You got under mine too." Her voice quieted. "The way you'd look at me across the library. That smirk. Like you knew something I didn't."

"I didn't know anything." His breath caught, just barely. "I was bluffing."

Rose's pulse skipped. "You were always bluffing."

"And you always called it." He lifted their joined hands, pressed a kiss to her knuckles—a gesture so soft it stole her breath. "I remember the day you caught me in the parking lot. After the merger simulation."

She frowned, searching her memory. "You mean when I told you your spreadsheets were wrong?"

"You didn't tell me. You showed me the error in front of the whole team." He let out a low laugh. "I wanted to kill you. And then you smiled, and I couldn't remember why."

Rose's chest tightened. She looked down at their hands, at the way his fingers curved around hers. "I smiled because I won."

"No." His voice dropped. "You smiled because you knew I'd never forget it."

The jazz swelled, then faded. A couple at the bar laughed, glasses clinking. Rose felt the warmth of his hand, the solid gravity of his presence, and something in her chest loosened—a knot she'd carried for years, unraveling one strand at a time.

"You're still insufferable," she said, her voice thick.

"And you're still the only person who can make me admit it." He squeezed her hand. "I think I've always known that."

She didn't look away. "So what now?"

He raised his glass, meeting her eyes over the rim. "Now we finish this drink. And then I walk you home."

"You know what I still haven't forgiven you for?" Rose set down her glass, the whiskey warming her throat. "The marketing simulation. Third year. Professor Reeves."

Scara's eyebrows lifted, a flicker of recognition passing through his indigo eyes. "That was three days of work."

"You replaced my demographic analysis with a breakdown of fictional cat cafés." Her voice rose, the memory flooding back hot and sharp. "I stood up there, clicked through ten slides of 'Projected Feline Beverage Consumption by District' before I realized what you'd done. In front of forty people."

"Your face went through seven shades of red." His smirk widened, but there was something soft beneath it. "I counted."

"I wanted to strangle you." She squeezed his hand, her pulse quickening. "Reeves thought I'd lost my mind. He gave me a B minus."

"You still got the highest score on the written portion." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I checked."

"You checked?"

"I always checked." His thumb resumed its slow circles on her wrist. "Do you remember the charity auction? Third-year gala. You were running the registration desk."

Rose's eyes narrowed. "You."

"Me." He didn't flinch. "I bid on you. For coffee."

"I wasn't an item." Her cheeks heated. "You put me up for bid without telling me. The dean's wife had to explain to everyone that it was a joke."

"It wasn't a joke." His voice softened, the smirk fading into something quieter. "I just wanted to sit with you. Without the competition. Without the arguing." He paused. "I was too much of a coward to say that then."

The jazz filled the space between his words. Rose felt the weight of that confession settle in her chest, warm and heavy. "You bid five hundred dollars."

"I would've bid more."

"You would have bankrupted yourself."

"Worth it." His eyes held hers, dark and steady. "Every time I made you blush — worth it."

The sound of a glass breaking somewhere in the bar pulled her back. Rose blinked, her throat tight. "You were insufferable," she whispered. "And you still owe me a B minus."

"I'll make it up to you." His hand tilted hers, palm open. He traced a line from her wrist to the base of her fingers. "I've got time."

"You ..." Her face burned, the heat spreading from her cheeks down her neck. She pulled her hand from his, pressing both palms to her face. "I can't believe you remember that."

"How could I forget?" His voice carried that old teasing lilt, but underneath it, something softer. "Professor Kim's Business Ethics lecture. You were presenting your case study on supply chain transparency. Very professional. Very composed."

"And you—" She dropped her hands, fixing him with a glare that had no real heat. "You reached into your pocket and flicked something into my blazer while I was turned to the whiteboard."

"They were small." He held up his thumb and forefinger, showing the approximate size. "Vibrating massage beads. Totally innocent."

"They weren't massaging anything." Her voice pitched higher. "They had multiple settings, Scara. Multiple. I stood there for fifteen minutes trying to figure out why my hip was buzzing before I realized what you'd done."

"The look on your face when you found them." He pressed a fist to his mouth, but his shoulders shook. "You pulled them out of your pocket and just stared at them. Mid-sentence."

"Professor Kim thought I'd smuggled in a sex toy." She dropped her head into her hands, the memory flooding back hot and vivid. "I had to explain they were marbles. To a sixty-year-old man. While thirty of our classmates watched."

"You handled it beautifully." He reached across the table, tugging gently at her wrist until she lowered her hands. "Told him it was a prototype for a haptic feedback device. Made up an entire product pitch on the spot." His thumb traced her pulse point. "You always could spin anything."

"I wanted to die." Her voice cracked, but a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "After class, I chased you down three flights of stairs."

"I remember." His eyes softened. "You cornered me by the vending machines. Told me you were going to destroy me in the final exam."

"And I did." She lifted her chin. "I scored four points higher than you."

"And I watched you walk across the graduation stage thinking—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. The jazz filled the space between them, saxophone curling through the dim light. "Thinking I'd never see you again."

The confession landed soft and heavy in her chest. Rose looked down at his hand wrapped around her wrist, at the way his thumb kept moving, kept circling, like he needed the contact to ground himself.

"You threw marbles in my clothes," she whispered.

"I'd do it again."

She laughed, the sound surprising her—bright and genuine, cutting through the bar's low murmur. "You're impossible."

"And you're still the only person who makes me want to be better." He lifted her hand, pressed his lips to her palm. "Even if it took me ten years to say it."

Yeah, yeah, but if you dare to do it again — I'm saying — I'll fucking kill you. Those are both embarrassing and... uncomfortable. Her face turned red, then more red as another memory surfaced. And yeah... another time... you just literally mixed something in my coffee that made my whole body became over sensitive to any kind of physical touch. Everywhere. And each time if anyone even grabbed my arm... I felt it. And I literally had to went to the toilet for no reason.

Scara's smirk widened, a dark pleasure flickering in his indigo eyes. He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming once on the table. "That was a special batch. A colleague owed me a favor — imported from a small apothecary in Kyoto. Supposed to heighten sensory perception. I thought you'd appreciate the edge in your afternoon meeting."

"Appreciate." Her voice cracked. "I couldn't sit still. My skirt felt like sandpaper. Every time someone spoke, the vibration of their voice went through the floor and up my legs." She pressed her palms flat on the table, knuckles white. "I spent two hours in the bathroom stall, trying to breathe through it."

"And yet you closed the Tanaka deal that same afternoon." His tone softened, the tease losing some of its bite. "I watched from the back of the room. You were trembling, but your voice never wavered. You signed the contract with a hand that barely shook."

She stared at him. "You were there."

"I was always there." He said it simply, no irony. "I wanted to see how you handled it. If you'd break." A pause, his gaze dropping to where her fingers curled against the wood. "You didn't."

The jazz swelled, saxophone curling through the dim light. Rose's throat tightened. "You could have warned me."

"Where's the fun in that?"

She wanted to throw her drink at him. Instead, she laughed — a short, breathless sound. "I hate you so much."

"No you don't." He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. Warm. Steady. "You hated that I knew exactly what you needed to feel alive. A challenge. An edge. A little danger." His thumb pressed into her palm, slow and deliberate. "You never let anyone see you sweat. I had to find other ways to make you blush."

The memory flooded back — the hypersensitivity, the way her skin had roared to life under even the lightest brush of fabric. She'd felt everything. The air on her neck. The brush of her own hair against her cheek. She'd sat in that stall, fingers pressed to her thighs, breath short, thinking of him. Of those indigo eyes watching her from across the room, knowing exactly what he'd done.

"You're a monster." Her voice came out rough, stripped of defense.

"Maybe." His thumb traced a slow circle on her palm. "But you're still here."

She pulled her hand back, but her fingers lingered against his for half a second longer than necessary. "I'm here because you bought me dinner."

"And because you wanted to see if I'd changed." He held her gaze, the smirk gone, something raw underneath. "Have I?"

The question hung between them, heavy as the bar's low murmur. Rose looked at him — sharp jaw, dark hair falling across his forehead, the single strand of tension in his shoulder. Ten years of memory compressed into this moment.

"No," she said quietly. "You're still impossible. Still infuriating. Still..." She stopped, the next word caught in her throat.

"Still what?"

She shook her head, a flush climbing her neck. "Nothing."

He didn't push. Instead, he lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the bar's low light. "To the Tanaka deal. To haptic feedback devices. And to the next time I make you blush."

She picked up her own glass, clinked it against his. The sound rang small and clear. "If you ever drug me again, I'll report you to HR."

"You'd have to prove it."

"I have witnesses." She took a sip, the whiskey burning warm down her throat. "Assistant Director Mori saw you near my coffee that morning."

His eyebrows lifted. "Mori retired two years ago. In Kyoto. I hear he's running a tea house."

Something cold and amused settled in her chest. "You bribed him."

"I offered him a partnership in a very lucrative import business. He accepted." Scara's smile was slow, deliberate. "I told you — I've been planning this for a long time."

"Even when Professor Tanaka touched my shoulder to praise me." Her voice dropped, the memory sharpening her features. "I flinched. Twitched. Right there in front of the entire seminar room. Everyone saw. And he was standing in the back — watching."

Scara's jaw tightened. The smirk didn't return. "I remember."

"You remember." She let out a hollow laugh. "I spent the rest of that week avoiding human contact. Wore turtlenecks. Kept my hands in my pockets. Couldn't shake the feeling that my own skin was too tight." Her fingers found the condensation on her glass, tracing slow circles through the moisture. "I thought I was losing my mind."

"You weren't." His voice came quieter now, stripped of theater. "The compound was called Senshō. It heightens nerve sensitivity by a factor of roughly six. Lasts twelve to fourteen hours depending on metabolism." He paused, his indigo eyes holding hers. "I gave you half a dose. The full amount would have put you in the hospital."

She stared at him, the air between them suddenly thin. "Half a dose."

"I wasn't trying to hurt you, Rose. I was trying to see you." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, the dim light carving shadows across his face. "You were so controlled. Every movement measured. Every word polished. I wanted to know what was underneath."

"So you stripped my nerve endings raw."

"I made you feel something you couldn't control." His voice dropped, rough at the edges. "And you still closed the Tanaka deal. Still smiled through the handshake. Still walked out of that room with your spine straight and your head high." He shook his head slowly. "I've never admired anyone the way I admired you that day."

The confession landed like a stone dropped in still water. Rose's breath caught, the whiskey warming her chest from the inside. She looked down at her hands, at the condensation smeared across her fingertips. "I cried in the bathroom after. For twenty minutes. Couldn't stop shaking."

"I know."

Her head snapped up. "You followed me?"

"I waited outside the women's restroom for thirty minutes. If you hadn't come out, I would have broken the door down." He said it without hesitation, without irony. "I knew what I'd done. I needed to make sure you were okay."

"You didn't."

"I did. But then Mori walked past and I had to pretend I was waiting for someone else." A ghost of his usual smirk flickered. "I told him I was waiting for my mother."

A laugh escaped her — unexpected, raw, cracking through the tension. "You told Assistant Director Mori you were waiting for your mother."

"He bought it. Said my mother was a lucky woman." Scara's eyes glinted. "I let him believe it."

Rose pressed her fingers to her mouth, the laughter threatening to spill again. "You're insane."

"Possibly." He reached for her glass, his fingers brushing hers as he took it. "But I'm also the man who's been in love with you for ten years and didn't know how to say it without drugging you first."

The words hung in the air, the jazz fading to a distant murmur. Rose's hand stayed where it was, the ghost of his touch still warm on her skin. She looked at him — truly looked, past the smirk and the sharp jaw and the impossible blue of his hair — and saw something she'd never let herself see before.

"Say it again," she whispered. "Without the excuse."

He set the glass down. Reached across the table. Took her hand in both of his, his palms warm and rough against her knuckles. "I've been in love with you since the day you threw my notes out the third-floor window and told me I needed to learn humility."

"I was seventeen."

"I was eighteen. And I've never recovered." He lifted her hand, pressed his lips to her knuckles — slow, deliberate, his breath warm against her skin. "You asked if I've changed. I haven't. Not in the ways that matter. I'm still competitive. Still obsessive. Still willing to cross lines I shouldn't cross." He pulled back, his indigo eyes holding her still. "But now I know what I'm fighting for."