1 My ex acquired my design firm, installed himself as my CEO, and on the morning I was packing up my apartment to run as far away from him as possible, he showed up on my welcome mat holding a golden retriever on a leash. "So," he drawled, his gaze dark and infuriatingly steady. "You're really just going to abandon your son?" Please.

I don't have a dog for a son. I ran into Lucas Graham again at our fiveyear college reunion.

I was seated at a corner table in the private dining room of a boutique hotel downtown, nursing a glass of fullbodied Cabernet and mentally calculating the commission from the commercial project I had wrapped that afternoon.

Not bad. Enough to treat myself to a dryaged ribeye. And enough to buy gourmet freezedried salmon for Dumpling.

Dumpling was my best friend Piper’s pedigreed Scottish Fold, currently parked in my apartment on longterm foster care.

He possessed an aristocratic lineage and an attitude to match. "Well, if it isn't our star design director!" A former classmate slid into the chair beside me, grinning over the rim of his glass. "Hiding in the corner, Nora?

Come on, drink with us." Before I could politely decline, three more glasses appeared in front of me.

College nostalgia has an aggressive momentum, and within thirty minutes, I was trading toasts like a seasoned diplomat. "If any of you ever need residential redesigns, give me a call," I smiled, lifting my glass. "I’ll even throw in the alumni discount." The crystal glasses clinked in midair—and right at that exact second, the heavy oak doors swung open.

A tall, broadshouldered silhouette stepped into the room. The chatter died instantly. For a suspended breath, nobody moved.

Then the entire room surged toward the entrance like iron shavings drawn to a magnet. "Lucas! Man, you were already untouchable back in school, but look at you now.

The rest of us don't stand a chance." My slight wine buzz evaporated the moment my eyes collided with his.

His features were sharper than I remembered, his jawline sculpted with an effortless, cool detachment.

He wore an unstructured charcoal blazer over a crisp white shirt, radiating the kind of effortless wealth that makes everyone else feel underdressed. Nobody told me he was coming.

Wasn't he supposed to still be in London? His arrival turned the room into a feeding frenzy.

Within seconds, half the single women in the room had cornered him with calculated laughter and practiced smiles.

I shrank into the upholstered banquette, willing myself to blend into the wallpaper.

Piper slipped through the crowd and sat beside me, holding two fresh glasses. "Look at your ex, Nora," she whispered, nudging my shoulder. "Three years after breaking your heart, and his market value has somehow gone through the roof." "Remind me why we're friends?" I muttered, glaring at her over my glass. "If you don't want him, there's an entire line of women ready to throw themselves at Lucas Graham's feet." "I'm aware." He had been the campus golden boy; some things never changed. "Be pragmatic," Piper leaned in, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Word on the street is that he's looking for a lead architect and interior director for his new estate in the historic district." My eyes widened. "The historic district?

As in, the eightfigure zip code?" "A fifteenthousandsquarefoot triplex modern brownstone. Three levels." Fifteen thousand square feet.

My pride staged a brief, valiant protest, but my bank account decisively overruled it. Pride doesn't pay for imported cat food or highrise rent.

We might have shared a messy oneyear history before he vanished across the Atlantic, but business was business. A massive commission is a massive commission.

I took a steadying breath, grabbed my glass, smoothed my silk skirt, and walked straight into the lion’s den. Piper stared after me in shock.

Near the doorway, Serena Frost was practically leaning against Lucas's arm, her adoration painted in unsubtle strokes across her face.

I stepped into his line of sight, pasted on my most polished, bulletproof professional smile, and extended my hand. "Lucas. Long time no see.

If you ever need design expertise for a new property, you know where to find me." It was a hollow, glossy greeting.

But then my eyes caught the custom platinum cufflink at his wrist, and my smile instantly warmed by ten genuine degrees. Lucas looked down at me.

His dark eyes locked onto mine with that intense, unblinking focus he used to have when we were alone in his dorm room. My rehearsed smile froze on my lips.

Just when the silence stretched long enough to make my palms sweat, he looked away, took a measured sip of his bourbon, and said in a low, gravelly timbre: "I'll keep that in mind." Remembering that Dumpling was waiting at home, I slipped out early.

I got back to my apartment, brushed the cat, scooped the litter box, and filled his ceramic dish with organic pate.

After a hot shower, I collapsed onto the bed and opened Instagram. My feed was an avalanche of tagged reunion photos.

Because of the gathering, our old university alumni group chat had exploded back to life, flooding my notifications with dozens of pending friend requests.

My head was still swimming from the wine.

Without looking at the usernames, I tapped Accept All, let my phone slide onto the duvet, and drifted into a deep sleep. 2 The next morning, when the elevator doors parted in my office tower to reveal Lucas Graham standing inside in a tailored threepiece suit, I honestly thought I was still caught in a REM cycle. "Coming in?" he asked smoothly.

His long fingers held the Door Open button. A pair of goldrimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, giving his sharp bone structure an air of predatory sophistication.

A devil in bespoke tailoring, my brain supplied unhelpfully. I cleared my throat, stepped inside, and reached out to press fifteen—only to find the button already illuminated.

Coincidence? Or had he actually tracked where I worked? The silence between us was thick and stifling.

Determined to play it cool, I kept my eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator. "Aren't you going to press your floor?" I finally blurted, pointing a manicured finger toward the panel.

Lucas glanced down at me, his expression flat. "It’s already pressed." "You're going to fifteen too?" The memory of Piper’s gossip from the night before flashed in my head.

Was he visiting our firm to pitch his fifteenthousandsquarefoot estate?

Opportunity was knocking right on my forehead; I couldn't let it pass. "Lucas, if you really are vetting firms for your residential build—" Ding. The doors slid open.

Standing right outside the lobby was our managing partner, wearing the widest, most deferential grin I had ever seen on his face. "Tommy!

Perfect timing, you two came up together!" Our managing partner clapped Lucas on the shoulder, addressing him by his private equity handle. Tommy.

The anonymous venture capitalist who had finalized the hostile takeover of our agency last Friday. The blood drained from my face. I stood frozen on the carpet.

Beside me, Lucas tilted his head, a faint, razorthin smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Looking forward to working closely with you, Lead Designer Miller." 3 I wanted to resign on the spot. "Are you completely insane?" Piper almost choked on her iced Americano when I met her for a frantic lunch downstairs. "You worked three years to make Design Director.

You're going to throw your equity and your title away just because your boss happens to be your ex?" She leaned over the cafe table, her eyes glittering. "Think about the narrative!

Your new supreme boss is a man who owes you emotional restitution. He’s wealthy, powerful, and deeply indebted to your shared past.

Most corporate climbers would sell a kidney for this kind of leverage." "I am not leveraging an exboyfriend," I groaned, sinking into the leather booth.

We had interned at the same firm right out of college, dated for twelve intense months, and then, without warning, he informed me he had accepted a private equity fellowship in London.

We broke up over cold takeout, and he vanished from my life. I had spent three years convincing myself that he was a closed chapter.

Now he was sitting in the corner suite thirty feet from my desk. Every time I imagined seeing his face every day from nine to five, my temples throbbed.

Think of the mortgage, I told myself. Think of Dumpling’s imported wet food. The person who signs the paycheck makes the rules.

During the postlunch slump, our usually tranquil breakroom was buzzing like a beehive.

I stood by the water filtration unit, clutching my thermal tumbler, as fragments of whispers drifted over the hum of the ice maker. "Did you see his portfolio?

Stanford MBA, five years in European acquisitions... wait, Nora, didn't you go to the same university as Mr.

Graham?" An eagleeyed junior designer pointed at a companywide announcement on her tablet. A dozen heads turned toward me in unison.

I kept my face utterly blank, despite the nervous flutter in my throat. "We weren't in the same graduating year," I lied effortlessly, looking away. "We barely knew each other." The air in the room suddenly dropped ten degrees.

The junior designer's eyes went wide, darting nervously past my shoulder. A cold prickle traveled down the back of my neck. I turned around.

Lucas was standing directly behind me, hands buried in the pockets of his slacks, his tall frame blocking the doorway. His expression was an impenetrable mask. "Mr.

Graham," I said, offering an immaculate, customerservice smile. "Did you need something?" They say you never strike a smiling face.

But Lucas Graham wasn't bound by standard social contracts. "The full schematic deck for the Hudson Waterfront project," he said, his voice level and entirely devoid of warmth. "Have it printed, bound, and on my desk before five." Petty.

Unadulterated, calculated retaliation. "Right away, Mr. Graham." Rule number one of corporate survival: never show irritation to the man who owns the building.

Having my ex become my boss was already enough of a headache.

But Preston Wells—our firm’s most highmaintenance, ultrawealthy real estate client—decided that today was the perfect day to make my life infinitely more complicated.

He strolled into the openplan office holding a cascade of ninetynine crimson roses, looking like a walking cologne commercial. "Nora," Preston drawled, flashing a practiced smile that belonged on a billboard. "Would I have the distinct honor of taking our most talented director out for dinner tonight?" A chorus of low oohs rippled through the bullpen.

I maintained my polite distance, clasping my hands in front of me. "Mr. Wells, I appreciate the thought, but I'm under a strict project deadline tonight.

I’m afraid you'll have to find another dining companion." Preston didn't look remotely deterred. If anything, the rejection seemed to amuse him. "Then I’ll take a raincheck.

But you can't possibly refuse the flowers, Nora. You’d break my heart." He stepped forward, extending the massive floral arrangement.

I was mentally drafting a diplomatic excuse when a large, elegant hand reached past my shoulder and plucked the entire bouquet effortlessly from Preston’s grip. "Thank you, Mr.

Wells," Lucas’s voice cut through the air, smooth as polished glass. "However, Director Miller doesn't care for red roses.

She prefers Casablanca lilies." Before anyone could process what was happening, Lucas turned and dropped the fivehundreddollar bouquet straight into the stainless steel trash bin by the reception desk.

The entire floor fell deathly silent. "Furthermore," Lucas continued, adjusting his cuffs with leisurely precision, "company policy strictly prohibits personal solicitations during work hours." I glanced at the wall clock.

It was twelvefortyfive.

Lunch break. "Of course," Lucas added, his gaze settling heavily on Preston. "We value your account immensely, and we look forward to finalizing your design contract." A wolf in a bespoke suit.

Preston’s smile tightened, his eyes narrowing as he measured Lucas. "Of course. Good day, Mr. Graham." The second Preston disappeared into the elevator vestibule, I exhaled.

Before I could inhale again, the team swarmed my desk. "Nora! You lied!" "You said you barely knew him!

How does the CEO know your favorite flower?" "My intuition is screaming right now.

There is definitely history here—" "What it means," I interrupted, raising my voice just enough to sound authoritative, "is that our new CEO conducts rigorous background checks on senior leadership.

I suggest you all channel that investigative energy into your rendering files, unless you want him standing over your shoulder next." The mention of Lucas’s oversight sent everyone scattering back to their workstations like startled birds.

I let out a long breath, gathered the printed Hudson deck, and walked down the executive corridor to Lucas's corner office.

I placed the binder squarely on his mahogany desk and turned to leave. "Director Miller." His voice stopped me at the door.

Lucas was seated behind the sprawling desk, his index finger tapping against the polished wood in a slow, rhythmic cadence. I recognized that tell immediately.

He was irritated. "I understand that maintaining client rapport is essential to your role," he said smoothly, looking up from his monitor. "However, I expect my department heads to maintain impeccable boundaries.

Discernment matters." I turned slowly, meeting his gaze headon. "Mr. Graham, you needn't worry about my professionalism.

In my world, men are categorized into exactly three groups." I held up three fingers, ticking them off one by one. "First: clients. Second: colleagues and employers.

Third: complete strangers." I leveled a cool stare at him. "I'm not in the habit of entertaining men who don't even know what flowers I like." Lucas didn't flinch.

He let the silence linger for a full minute, then calmly drew the file toward him. "A sensible philosophy," he murmured, a faint, sardonic amusement flickering in his eyes. "Though given how long you've been single, I doubt many people remember what flowers you like anyway." "I manage just fine on my own, Mr.

Graham." I gave him a razorsharp glare, spun on my heels, and walked out. 4 Since Lucas walked back into my life, my internal equilibrium had been completely wrecked.

The moment the clock struck six, I packed my bag and left, partly to avoid bumping into him in the executive garage, and partly because a very spoiled cat was waiting for dinner.

I stopped by the boutique grocer downstairs, loading a tote bag with artisanal snacks, imported cured meats, and dark chocolate—retail therapy for my bruised ego.

When the elevator reached my floor, the doors slid open to reveal a mountain of moving crates blocking the hallway.

And right in front of the door across from mine sat an enormous, magnificent golden retriever with a coat the color of spun honey. My frustration vanished instantly.

I’m an animal person at heart. Dumpling’s aloof attitude was tolerable, but a warm, eager dog was an instant weakness.

I dropped onto my heels in front of the retriever and buried my fingers in her soft fur. She didn't bark.

Instead, she leaned her heavy head against my shoulder, gazing at me with warm, soulful amber eyes. "Aren't you gorgeous?" I cooed, melting on the spot.

I rummaged through my grocery bag, found a packet of organic dried beef sticks, peeled one open, and held it out on my palm. "Want a treat, girl?" The dog eyed the beef stick, then looked at me, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Go on, it’s prime beef," I coaxed. "Pepper." A low, familiar voice echoed from the elevator lobby.

I froze. Pepper? Why did that sound so painfully familiar? I looked up over my shoulder.

Lucas Graham stood by the elevator bank, holding a leather briefcase, looking down at me with that same infuriating, unreadable expression.

At the sound of his voice, the golden retriever stood up, padded past me, and sat obediently at Lucas’s polished oxfords. "Woof." It took three whole seconds for the gears in my brain to align.

My jaw dropped. "Lucas Graham!

You named your dog after my childhood nickname?!" 5 "She had a penchant for Pepperbrand teething chews when she was a pup," he replied smoothly, without missing a beat.

A baldfaced lie. A fiveyearold wouldn't have bought it. Pepper sat regally beside his tailored trousers, her big brown eyes blinking at me with absolute innocence.

My heart softened despite myself. Then the broader context registered. "Wait... you moved into the unit directly across from mine?" I stared at his open double doors.

Through the entryway, I caught glimpses of minimalist Italian furniture, floortoceiling modern art, and recessed gallery lighting that screamed obscene wealth.

I looked back at him, my eyes narrowing.

First the corporate buyout, now the penthouse unit across my hall. "Is this supposed to be a coincidence?" "You have an objection?" Lucas countered, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, his tone dripping with casual arrogance.

I gritted my teeth into a rigid smile. "Not at all." "Don't flatter yourself, Nora," he said coolly. "This building is four blocks from the headquarters.

It minimizes my commute." Right. Perfectly logical. Completely maddening. "Fine.

But stealing my childhood nickname for your dog is crossing a line." "And your point is?" He raised an eyebrow, looking down at me lazily. "As compensation, you owe me dogsitting privileges for an afternoon." Lucas’s gaze shifted, turning deep and slow. "You want to borrow my company?" "Do not twist my words," I snapped, feeling a flush creep up my neck. "I mean the dog.

Pepper. Your golden retriever." "Pepper has a strong sense of autonomy," he said dryly. "I don't force her into arrangements.

Besides, she doesn't eat processed meat sticks laced with preservatives." He glanced dismissively at the artisan beef treat in my hand.

Suddenly, my comfort food didn't feel so comforting. Frustrated, I shoved the packet back into my bag, stood up, and turned to unlock my apartment door, determined to shut him out.

Before I could turn the key, a leather leash was gently placed into my open palm.

At the other end, Pepper was looking up at me, tail wagging softly against the hardwood floor. "Be gentle with your auntie," Lucas told the dog, his voice dropping into a quiet, smooth cadence. "Be on your best behavior." Auntie?!

I took a deep, steadying breath, chanting internal mantras about inner peace. "Changed your mind?" Lucas asked, reaching out as if to retrieve the leash.

I yanked it back instinctively. "Not a chance. She’s far too pretty to stay locked in your minimalist museum." Lucas let out a sudden, genuine laugh. The sound caught me off guard.

It was the first time in three years I had heard him laugh like that—open, unguarded, and breathtakingly handsome. "So you're captivated by her beauty?" he murmured, leaning slightly closer, a teasing glint in his dark eyes. "Completely helpless against it?" My heart gave an involuntary thud.

I gave him a flat look, spun around, and led the retriever into my apartment. 6 Once inside, I took off Pepper’s leash and gently lifted Dumpling down from his sixfoot cat tree.

One minute later, I stood frozen in the middle of my kitchen, holding a bowl of fresh salmon.

Dumpling—a cat whose daily schedule consisted of glaring at commoners from elevated surfaces—had wrapped all four paws around Pepper’s front leg like an oversized velvet glove, purring loudly.

Where was his aristocratic dignity? Even when I placed his favorite salmon right under his nose, Dumpling didn't budge. He pressed his furry face deeper into Pepper’s golden fur.

After thirty minutes of trying to coax my own cat to acknowledge my existence, I admitted defeat. I walked across the hallway and pressed Lucas’s video doorbell.

The door opened instantly.

Lucas had changed into charcoal lounge pants and a soft cashmere crewneck, holding a glass of sparkling water. "Problem?" I stood there with Pepper’s leash, clearing my throat awkwardly. "I think you should take Pepper back.

I just remembered I have some design revisions to finalize, and I don't want to neglect her..." My eyes darted toward the hallway carpet.

Lucas crossed his arms, his gaze narrowing thoughtfully. "Pepper is trained.

She won't disrupt your work." He paused, his voice softening by an imperceptible degree. "Nora, has anyone ever told you that you're an atrocious liar?" My chest tightened.

Those were the exact words he had spoken to me years ago, during our first winter together, when I tried to hide that I was freezing during a latenight walk by the river.

My fingers gripped the leather strap so hard my knuckles went pale. Before I could offer another excuse, a streak of creamcolored fur darted out from behind my ankles.

Dumpling slid across Lucas’s polished hardwood floor and instantly glued himself back onto Pepper’s paws.

Lucas looked down at the cat, then back up at me, an eyebrow arched in quiet amusement. "So that's the real reason." I buried my face in my hands, turned on my heel, and retreated into my apartment, slamming the door shut behind me. 7 I was beginning to believe the universe had orchestrated Lucas Graham’s return purely to test my sanity.

Three years apart, and he had returned wealthier, sharper, and dangerously magnetic.

To make matters worse, my foster cat had completely defected to his household. "You have no shame," I told Dumpling the next evening, poking his round belly as he sat by my front door. "You come from a championship bloodline, and you're begging at the neighbor's door like a stray." Dumpling gave me a slow, unimpressed blink, turned his back, and sat in an upright, expectant posture.

When I refused to open the door, he launched a fullscale domestic protest. He refused his organic kibble.

And whenever I sat down at my drafting desk, he would deliberately stretch his entire body across my architectural vellum, covering my CAD measurements. "Fine," I muttered, throwing my stylus down. "Go see if he wants a freeloading feline." I opened the front door.

Dumpling trotted across the hall with purposeful strides. Through the peephole, I watched Lucas open his door and let him inside without a second thought. Five minutes passed.

Dumpling didn't return. Ten minutes passed. I heard Lucas’s low voice talking to both animals.

Fifteen minutes in, I lost my patience, slipped on my slides, and knocked loudly on his door. "Lucas, are you trying to claim ownership of my cat now?" Inside his living room, Dumpling was curled up in an ergonomic memoryfoam pet bed, surrounded by an array of highend cat toys that definitely hadn't been there yesterday. "He knocked," Lucas said calmly, looking up from an open quarterly report. "You could have closed the door!" "Hospitality is a basic virtue," he replied, tilting his head with that infuriatingly composed halfsmile. "By that logic, if you knock on my door, should I lock you out as well?" I gritted my teeth.

The man was impossible. He should have gone into corporate litigation instead of venture capital. I bent down, scooped Dumpling into my arms, and backed away. "Never mind.

Forget I said anything." Pick your battles, I reminded myself.

To give credit where it was due, since Lucas took over the firm, our operational budget had doubled, and our commission structures were the highest in the city.

The entire studio walked around with a sense of buoyant optimism. The junior designers openly daydreamed about the mysterious, eligible new CEO.

But I made a conscious effort to establish an emotional firewall.

No matter how hard I tried to treat him as merely an executive, the word ex remained lodged in my memory, an unhealed fracture beneath the surface.

I initiated a tactical evasion strategy. I left my apartment an hour earlier every morning. I stayed at my desk an hour later every evening.

For two weeks, the routine worked flawlessly. We existed like parallel lines in the same building.

The only casualty was Dumpling, who spent his evenings staring forlornly at the front door, letting out tiny, tragic mews. "Do you think Mr.

Graham has a partner in London?" one of the project managers asked during a Friday coffee run.

I held my ceramic mug, staring silently into the dark roast. "Hard to say," another replied. "A man with his pedigree doesn't stay single for long." My grip on the handle tightened until the porcelain bit into my skin.

The following Monday, Talia Montgomery walked into the executive suite as the lead liaison for the Hudson account. Talia had pursued Lucas relentlessly during our college years.

Seeing her glide into his office in a designer power suit confirmed that some obsessions simply evolved with age.

That evening, after Dumpling spent a full week picking at his food and visibly sulking, I finally threw in the towel. I carried him across the hall and knocked.

Lucas answered, holding his phone in one hand while Pepper sat beside him, practicing paw commands. They looked like a serene, catalogperfect portrait of domestic bliss.

I walked past him into the foyer, my frustration bubbling over. As I handed Dumpling over, my eyes caught his illuminated phone screen.

A text notification from Talia Montgomery was resting at the top. Flirting with another woman while your ex is standing right here?

Without thinking, I reached out and snatched the phone from his grip. "Can you manage your dog's social schedule, please?" Lucas didn't demand his phone back.

Instead, he reached down, picked up Dumpling—who was already rubbing against Pepper’s front legs—and began gently stroking the cat behind the ears.

Dumpling let out a loud, traitorous purr.

Lucas looked up, his voice dropping into a velvet drawl: "Pepper, you really are getting spoiled." 8 There was an undercurrent in his voice that felt entirely too intimate, too loaded with unspoken weight.

I forced myself not to react. Showing irritation would only give him the upper hand. "Anyway," I said evenly, crossing my arms. "Thank you for watching the cat. I owe you one.

If you ever need a professional favor within reason, just ask." Lucas continued stroking Dumpling’s fur, his eyes never leaving mine. "In what capacity?" "What?" "As my colleague," he murmured, "or as my ex?" A direct hit. "Colleague," I managed, keeping my tone crisp.

Lucas leaned back against the entryway console, his expression settling into an amused challenge. "Fine.

But when I call in that favor, it applies regardless of which title we're using.

Dumpling’s room and board doesn't come cheap." I took a deep breath, wondering why I ever thought engaging with him was a good idea. The favor arrived sooner than expected.

He asked me to be his plusone for the Hudson project gala. The deal had closed with recordbreaking margins, secured by Lucas in under four weeks.

The executive board had approved a massive bonus pool for the entire design division, and the celebration dinner was mandatory. "Look at you, complaining about a golden ticket," Piper told me over FaceTime as I surveyed my closet. "Every woman in the corporate sector would kill to walk into that ballroom on Lucas Graham’s arm.

You're his director and his companion.

Own it." "It's purely transactional," I insisted, though my hands were slightly unsteady as I smoothed the silk of my midnightblue slip dress.

To his credit, Lucas had arranged for an executive styling suite before the event. When I looked in the mirror, I looked every bit the highpowered creative director.

At the gala, the champagne flowed endlessly. But whenever a waiter approached our table, Lucas discreetly swapped my crystal flute for fresh bloodorange spritzer.

He stayed by my side the entire evening, intercepting every heavy toast directed at me with effortless charm. By eleven, I hadn't had a single drop of alcohol.

Lucas, on the other hand, had consumed several glasses of vintage scotch. A faint flush touched his cheekbones, though his posture remained impeccably straight.

Under the tablecloth, I reached out and caught the edge of his sleeve, tugging gently. "Lucas," I whispered, leaning in so only he could hear. "Stop drinking.

You’re over your limit." He turned to look at me. The ambient ballroom lights reflected in his dark, slightly hazy eyes.

For a split second, the sharp CEO persona softened completely, revealing a warmth that made my chest ache.

I looked down, pretending to check my clutch. "Understood," he murmured near my ear. The warm vibration of his voice against my skin sent an electric shiver straight down my spine.

The autumn evening suddenly felt stiflingly warm. It was nearly one in the morning when we stepped out of the rideshare and into our building's elevator.

The scent of cedar and peated whisky clung to his coat. His skin looked unusually pale under the LED lights.

A forgotten memory surfaced: he had suffered from chronic gastritis during our final year at university whenever he worked through meals. "Is your stomach acting up?" I asked, stepping closer to where he leaned against the mirrored wall. "Did you bring your medication?" He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, remaining silent.

That silence confirmed it. Whenever his gastritis flared, he stopped speaking entirely to endure the pain.

I opened my evening bag, pulled out a blister pack of antacids I always kept on hand, and popped two tablets into my palm.

Lucas looked down at the pills, a flicker of surprise breaking through his haze.

I couldn't exactly tell him that I had started carrying them again three weeks ago, purely out of residual habit. To admit that was to admit I still cared.

Before I could pull my hand back, Lucas reached out, caught my wrist, and pulled me forward.

His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest with a desperate, crushing intensity—as if he were trying to weld me into his very framework.

The heat of his body, the steady, heavy thud of his heart against my ribs—it was entirely overwhelming. My mind went completely blank.

Then, low and raspy against the curve of my neck, his voice broke through the silence: "Nora...

I knew you still remembered." 9 The total absence of space between us sent my pulse into overdrive. He was the one intoxicated, but I was the one feeling completely dizzy.

The ambient hum of the elevator faded, replaced entirely by the sound of his heartbeat—loud, unhurried, and striking straight against my chest.

I stood there, paralyzed in his embrace. There was a raw, vulnerable cadence in his voice that I had never heard before. Relief mixed with something dangerously close to heartbreak.

Was he relieved because of the medicine? Or something else?

When I didn't pull away, his grip tightened, his face sinking into the hollow of my neck. "I missed you," he breathed against my skin. "God, I missed you." The moment the words left his mouth, his weight shifted heavily against me.

The exhaustion and alcohol had finally overtaken him. I barely caught his sixfoottwo frame before he slid down. He was entirely too heavy.

When the elevator chimed on our floor, I had to practically drag him across the corridor, his arm draped over my shoulders.

I reached his front door and realized the critical flaw in my rescue mission: his imported digital lock required a passcode. I propped him against the doorframe, breathing hard.

Guessing time. First try: his birthday. Error tone. Second try: his old apartment number. Error tone. Third try: my birthday.

I was already preparing to drag him into my living room to sleep on the sofa if this failed. Beep. Click. The heavy mahogany door swung open.

I stood there in the quiet hallway, staring at the green light on the keypad.

It took another twenty minutes of exertion to get him onto his kingsized bed, slide off his leather oxfords, remove his suit jacket, and wipe his forehead with a damp washcloth.

Just as I straightened up to leave, his hand shot out and caught my fingers in a firm grip. "Don't go," he muttered, his brows furrowed in his sleep. "You promised you wouldn't walk away." His fingers were locked around mine.

I couldn't pull free without waking him, so I sat on the edge of the mattress, looking down at his resting face in the dim amber light of the bedside lamp. "Lucas," I whispered softly into the quiet room. "Why is your door code my birthday?"