11.
Rodney's on his phone when I slip into bed beside him.
The glow from the screen lights up the side of his face, cold and blue. His thumb moves steadily, typing, pausing, typing again. I keep my breathing slow and even, eyes closed, body still.
After a few seconds, I let one eye crack open.
9:45.
Of course.
If his schedule allows it, Rodney likes to be asleep by 10:30. He says it keeps him sharp.
I stare at the numbers on the clock like I can force them to move faster.
Part of me wants to roll over. Just a little. Just enough to see who he's texting. But that would mean shifting the mattress, changing my breathing, risking him noticing I'm still awake.
And if he notices I'm still awake, there's a good chance he'll reach for me.
My stomach tightens at the thought.
So I stay still.
Ten o'clock comes.
Then 10:07.
10:12.
My nerves stretch tighter with every passing minute. Not because of him—because of what I'm about to do. Because of the address saved in my phone. Because of the memory of that kiss replaying in my head like a scene from a movie I didn't mean to star in.
10:15.
Like clockwork, Rodney exhales, locks his phone, and sets it on the nightstand. The room falls into darkness.
He shifts beside me, pulling the comforter higher, then settles onto his back. I wait. I count the seconds between each breath. I know his rhythms. I've learned them the way people learn tides.
Three minutes.
Five.
Seven.
His breathing deepens. Slower. Heavier.
Finally.
Carefully, I slide the comforter back and lift myself off the mattress. The bed barely moves. Years of practice.
I tuck the sheet back around him so it looks undisturbed.
Then I slip into the closet.
The overhead light stays off. I move in the dark, changing by memory. Pajamas off. Black leggings. Black hoodie.
My contacts are already out from earlier, so I grab my glasses and slide them on. I pull off my bonnet and run a brush through my hair.
Then I grab my purse.
I step back into the bedroom.
Rodney hasn't moved.
Still asleep. Mouth slightly open. Breathing heavy and even.
I tiptoe to the door, open it slowly, and slip into the hallway.
Only once the door is closed behind me do I pull out my phone and send a text to Grant.
Naomi
On my way.
My heart beats faster the second I hit send.
The night air is cool when I step onto the driveway.
Two Secret Service agents stand near the front entrance. One of them turns as the door closes behind me.
Brandon.
Relief washes over me.
"Hey, Mrs. Housner," he says with an easy smile. "Heading out for one of your late-night drives?"
I laugh softly. "You know me."
He nods like it's routine.
I take a step closer, lowering my voice. "Can I ask you a favor, Brandon?"
He straightens a little. "Anything."
I hesitate, then say it anyway. "Is it okay if I don't get followed tonight? I've got you guys on speed dial if anything happens, but I just... I need to clear my head. Be alone for a bit."
He studies my face. Not suspicious. Just careful.
For a second, I think he's going to say no.
Then he nods once. "You got it. Just be back by one."
Relief floods through me so fast I almost laugh. Instead, I step forward and give him a quick hug.
"Thank you. Seriously."
He pats my shoulder. "Drive safe, ma'am."
I pull back, nod, and head toward my car.
My hands are slightly shaky as I unlock it.
This is happening.
The engine hums softly as I pull out of the driveway.
For the second time in weeks, there's no second car easing in behind me. No headlights lingering in the rearview mirror. No quiet reminder that I'm never really alone.
Just the open road.
It feels strange. Light. Almost wrong.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel.
I don't know what he meant by clear the air. I don't know if he's going to apologize or tell me we can't see each other anymore or pretend it didn't happen at all.
Every scenario plays out in my head like a bad rehearsal.
Maybe he regrets it.
Maybe he thinks I pushed him into it.
Maybe he's going to tell me I need a new therapist.
My stomach twists.
The streetlights blur past in steady intervals. The radio stays off. The quiet feels more honest.
By the time I reach the neighborhood, my nerves are stretched thin.
It's darker out here. Quieter. The kind of area where the houses sit back from the road.
I slow the car, squinting at the numbers on the mailboxes.
392
394
Then I see it.
395.
Just a mailbox and a long, narrow driveway disappearing into a tunnel of trees.
I turn in slowly.
The headlights cut through the darkness as the car rolls forward. Trees line both sides, tall and shadowed, their branches forming a loose canopy overhead. The driveway seems to stretch forever—quiet, secluded, almost hidden.
My heart starts beating faster.
It takes almost half a minute before the house comes into view.
And when it does, it feels like something out of an architectural magazine.
A sleek, modern structure rises from the darkness—clean white stone, black metal framing, and long panels of glass glowing softly from the inside. The upper level juts forward over the lower one, sharp and geometric, like it was designed with a ruler instead of a pencil.
Soft ground lights trace the walkway and the edges of the landscaping. A shallow water feature reflects the house back at itself, rippling faintly under the lights.
It's quiet and polished.
Very him.
I pull to a slow stop near the front.
No cars in the driveway.
That makes me realize something I hadn't thought about before.
I don't even know what kind of car Grant drives.
I reach for my phone.
Three seconds later.
Of course he responds that fast.
I slip my phone back into my purse and lean my head against the seat for a second, staring out at the trees. The night air is cool when I crack the window. It smells like damp leaves and something faintly floral.
A moment later, the front door opens.
Grant steps out onto the walkway.
Gray sweatpants. Black compression shirt.
My stomach does something strange at the sight of him like that—so casual, so different from the composed, polished version I'm used to in the office.
He spots my car and gives a small, half-smile.
I lift my hand and wave.
The second I do it, I cringe internally.
Really? A wave?
I open the car door and step out before I can overthink it.
"Hey," I say as I walk up. "How are you?"
"Good," he replies. "You?"
"Can't complain."
I glance back at the house, taking it in again.
"Really nice property," I say.
"Yeah," he says. "I had it built. Three years ago now."
That surprises me. "You designed it?"
He nods. "With some help. But yeah, mostly."
We stand there for a beat, the silence stretching just a little too long.
Then he clears his throat. "Do you want to come in?"
"Yes," I say quickly. "Thank you."
He steps aside, holding the door open.
As I walk past him, I can feel the warmth of the house spill over my skin—and the faint, familiar scent of his cologne underneath it.
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety.
And everything to do with the last time we were this close.
The inside of the house is just as sleek as the outside.
Clean lines. Dark wood. Soft, recessed lighting that makes everything look warmer than it should. The space feels open without feeling empty, like every piece of furniture was chosen on purpose.
It reminds me a little of his office building—modern, quiet, controlled.
"Wow," I say softly, stepping further inside. "Did you have any hands in designing the interior too?"
"Most of it," he says, shutting the door behind us. "I like clean spaces."
I glance around again. There aren't many personal touches. No framed photos on the walls. No family portraits. No clutter.
It feels calm.
But also a little lonely.
I wonder what his childhood looked like. What his parents were like. If he has more siblings besides Isabel.
Then I catch myself.
Is that important right now, Naomi?
I turn back to him—and realize he's already looking at me.
Just watching. Quietly. Like he's studying my reactions.
I shift slightly, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry. I was just admiring the place."
"No need to apologize," he says.
But his gaze doesn't move.
I wrap my arms loosely around myself, suddenly aware of how casual I look compared to the space around me.
"Well," I say, trying to lighten the mood, "you wanted to see me."
"I did," he replies.
He turns and walks further into the house. I follow him down a short hallway that opens into a large living area.
The space is low-lit and elegant—dark sectional couch, sleek black coffee table, built-in fireplace glowing softly beneath a wall-mounted screen.
"Do you want anything to drink?" he asks. "Water? Tea?"
"Water's fine."
He disappears into the kitchen. I stay where I am, looking around again. The house feels so different from mine. Not just in design—but in energy.
There's no tension here.
No waiting for someone to get home.
No listening for footsteps.
No calculating moods.
Just quiet.
Grant returns with two glasses of water and hands me one before sitting on the couch. I sit on the opposite end, leaving a respectful distance between us.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then he says, "Did you and Rodney build your place, or was it already built?"
"We bought it as-is," I say. "Neither of us has the mind for blueprints and contractors."
He smiles faintly. "Fair enough."
"How did you even learn all this?" I gesture around the room. "Design, architecture, all of it."
"My mom's an architect," he says. "So I grew up around it."
"That actually sounds kind of cool."
He nods. "You should see Isabel's place. She designed every inch of it and it's really vintage miami."
"I believe it," I say with a small smile. "She seems like the type."
He huffs a quiet laugh.
"What did your dad do?" He asks.
I take a sip of water. "Never met him."
"Oh," he starts. "Sorry. I didn't—"