Linden
Icome back to myself on the study floor at dawn with Aubrey beside me, her hand still in mine.
The goddamn contract is upstairs in a locked drawer. Along with the rule we broke, written in perfect legal language.
Her fingers move once against my palm.
I look down.
Aubrey's in her T-shirt. One of hers, black, wrinkled from the goddamn collapse of my self-control. Her hair is half-loose from whatever band survived the night. Her bare foot rests against the edge of my trouser leg, her heel tucked in, the healing ankle held carefully even in sleep.
Sex I understand.
But this? I have no framework for this. Aubrey is asleep on my floor like she belongs here, and I can't shake, can't out-argue, that she does.
Fuck.
At 6:12 a.m., I stand without waking her. The room is cool, and her T-shirt has ridden off one shoulder. I want to carry her upstairs and put her in my fucking bed. Under the contract, she still has her own suite. Besides, she said no to my bed last night.
With a quiet sigh, I leave the room and head to the kitchen.
Aubrey walks in six minutes later, barefoot, wearing her T-shirt. Her hair is caught in a rough knot. She stops when she sees me at the counter.
I'm barefoot, too, still in last night's trousers, making coffee I don't drink but she does.
She stares at the machine, then at me.
"You look like you're defusing a bomb," she says.
I shrug. "The machine has eleven settings. And I usually make tea."
Her mouth twitches. "Do I get to mock you before or after caffeine?"
"After," I tell her. "I want you at full capacity when you attack."
This morning, Zella March, my personal chef, has put out eggs, toast, and cereal beside the jars of things I never fucking eat.
Aubrey spots the cereal and narrows her eyes. "Is that surveillance cereal?"
I shrug. "It's breakfast cereal."
"Did the cereal sign an NDA?"
I chuckle. "Probably."
Aubrey takes the mug when I hand it over. "Powdered creamer?"
I nod to the left. "In the drawer."
She opens it and finds the tub. "This is either sweet or terrifying."
"Both can be true."
"About last night," she says suddenly, and I freeze. "It was just stress relief."
I don't know how to answer. I'm not sure I agree. But maybe... maybe she's right.
In fact, I know she is.
Or do I?
Fuck.
"That's exactly what it was," I agree, maybe a little too fast.
For some reason, she seems almost disappointed.
Amos Treadwell, my chief of staff, arrives just then. I let him in, and he registers the scene of us enjoying breakfast together in apparent marital bliss and makes no comment.
Instead, he pulls out the Sentinel approval schedule and says: "The vote-prep call can move to nine. And Greta wants twelve minutes before the finance committee window."
"Hey," Aubrey interrupts, pointing her toast at the Sentinel schedule, "am I still being followed by Dora the Wall today?"
Amos pauses.
I look at her. "Dora Quill is your close-protection agent."
She ignores me. "Dora the Wall. Very loyal. Low shedding."
I tap one foot impatiently. "Aubrey."
"And Hollis the Ominous. Your guy." She grins.
Amos presses his mouth flat.
Aubrey turns on him. "And you're Amos the Calendar. Obviously."
Amos adjusts his glasses. "I'd prefer not to be entered into the household mythology before eight."
"Too late," she says.
Amos looks down at his notebook.
Aubrey grins into her coffee, then finishes it. "Well, the shelter awaits. Have a good day at work."
By evening, rain hits the terrace glass hard enough to make leaving the penthouse a bad idea unless someone is bleeding or suing me.
Aubrey is doing neither, though she threatens the second when I tell her the fries are mine.
She was at the penthouse by the time I returned today, and hungrier than hell, as she'd taken her work home with her.
A woman after my own heart. I ordered Door Dash on the spot since Zella wasn't due to finish supper for another hour.
I instructed my chef to take the night off instead.
So now we're on the couch in the living room with her work papers spread across the table, a takeout bag between us, and a new foster cat on the far cushion.
The cat's here because a rescue pickup went sideways, and Aubrey said, "It's just for tonight," in the tone people reserve for situations that will invariably last longer than one night.
The cat has already tried to eat a binder clip.
Aubrey steals three fries from my plate.
"I saw that," I comment.
"You saw nothing," she counters. "Your system failed."
"My system logged the theft," I reply.
She shrugs. "Your 'system' can file a report."
She's barefoot again, in a T-shirt again, arguing witness protocols with a fry in her hand.
"I'm revising the protocol language," she says suddenly. "If Lantern House staff need to protect a resident from an abuser buying data, we don't create a paper trail just because your people like tidy boxes and subpoena-friendly shit."
"My people can learn..." I try.
"Your people love boxes," she counters. "Almost as much as they love data."
"My people love admissible documentation," I clarify.
"Your people need a hobby," she counters.
The cat sneezes on a stack of witness notes.
I finish my delivery burger and leave her to her work.
Near goddamn midnight, I find Aubrey in the kitchen, still awake. The cat is asleep in the living room. The rain hasn't let up. Aubrey has the Lantern House file open beside a mug of coffee.
"You're done," I say.
She shakes her head. "I'm fine."
"No," I counter.
Her eyes lift.
"You've been awake too long," I tell her. "Eat something goddamn bland, drink that electrolyte thing, then stop reading about men who use subpoenas like crowbars."
"Ever the bossy asshole," she mutters.
"Yes," I agree.
She smiles. "Honest, at least."
I nod. "On my better nights."
She watches me. "You're doing the thing."
I frown. "What thing?"
"The thing where you make it sound almost like you care," she comments.
I take the hit because she's right. She's sitting in my kitchen, and I'm out of fucking evasions that work.
"Maybe I do care," I say. Then: "Have a good night, Aubrey."
Her shoulders tighten. "That's it?"
"What more do you want?" I ask.
More stress relief? I want to say, but don't.
She pauses, disappointment flickering in her eyes. "Nothing, I guess."
I turn to go, but then pause.
"You know," I say over my shoulder. "When I was young, surprise was fucking bad. A question at dinner. A tutor's report repeated by someone who shouldn't have read it."
Aubrey doesn't say anything.
"In my family, being useful mattered more than being known," I continue. "Useful sons got time, money, attention. So I became useful, then I built systems that told me what was coming before it arrived."
"And this?" she asks. "Did your systems predict us?"
"That's the thing," I reply. "They didn't. This has been the biggest surprise of my life."
"And is that good or bad?" she presses.
I don't know.
"Good night, Aubrey," I say again, and retreat to my private suite.