Page 75 of Keller

No elaboration on what he means by that, but a lump rises in my throat. I can sense the pain surrounding her loss like it's physical. I wish I could somehow comfort him.

I lost my mom at fifteen, so I do empathize with him in a way that most people who have never lost a parent couldn't. Especially losing one at a young age.

Mothers and daughters have a special bond. There’s no doubt. But I also know there is something so fundamentallynecessary for a boy and his mother that losing her before puberty must be devastating for him.

I shift closer, settling my cheek over his heart. It beats steadily beneath my palm, strong and even, nothing like the chaos I expected when I let this happen again.

“She was the buffer,” he says after a stretch of quiet. “Between my father and the rest of us. He is always so… hard. Focused. Efficient.” His mouth tightens slightly on that last word. “She made the house a home instead of an extension of the office.”

He keeps his father in the present tense. The hardness never left.

I trace a slow line across his ribs. The story is simple, almost understated, but it explains more about him than anything else he has told me. The careful distance. The discipline. The way he studies people before he lets them close.

He grows quiet again, but this time he pulls me in tighter, his arm firm around my back. The gesture says enough. He has given me what he can.

I do not ask for more.

His eyes hold mine for a moment longer, searching for something I cannot name. I hold his gaze without filling the silence. After a while, his breathing evens out. It deepens gradually, the weight of him settling into the mattress. I wait, listening, until a faint rasp catches in his throat. Sleep.

I slide out from under his arm carefully and stand beside the bed for a second, watching him. He's a beautiful man, lying in my bed, wrapped in my sheets, looking almost vulnerable. The lines around his mouth soften.

I tiptoe to the bathroom and quietly close the door behind me, keeping the light off until it is sealed shut.

The bathroom light hums when I switch it on. I catch my reflection in the mirror. My hair is tangled, my cheeks stillflushed. There is a brightness in my eyes that I do not recognize right away.

I reach in to turn on the hot water and then turn back to the sink while it warms up. I rest my hands on the counter and study myself.

I crossed it tonight. Not the line of professionalism. That line has been separate from him for a while now. This was different. This was the line I drew to keep my balance, to keep control. I stepped over it because I wanted to.

Steam starts to cloud the mirror, so I know the water temperature is where I want it. I step under the spray and let it run over my shoulders. Heat sinks into my muscles, easing what remains of tension. My skin is sensitive everywhere he touched me. The memory lingers in the small aches and the warmth between my thighs.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back, letting the water run down my face.

I don't catalogue risk. I don’t rehearse consequences.

He is not my target. He is not the company. He is a man who just told me about his mother without turning it into a performance.

That matters.

Soap slides over my skin. When my hand passes between my legs, a slow pulse answers. I inhale sharply and steady myself against the tile. The reaction is not only physical. It is recognition. I wanted him. I still do.

The slight tenderness is a welcome sensation. I think about him inside of me, the way he took control and grabbed me, driving me down deeper. My mouth waters, and a pulse runs through me. I let myself bask in it for a moment before moving on.

I rinse, step out, and dry off slowly. The mirror is completely fogged over now, softening the sharp lines of the room. I rub the towel over it so I can see myself as I brush my hair.

I grab my sleep shorts from the back of the door and pull them on, leaving my tank top there. The air outside the bathroom is cooler.

He hasn't moved.

The sheets are still rumpled where I left them. I slide back into bed and fit myself against his side, curling into the curve of his body. His arm comes around me automatically, even in sleep.

I lay my head on his tattooed shoulder and close my eyes.

There is no calculation running beneath this. No strategy. No second-guessing.

I choose this.

And for the first time in weeks, my mind is quiet.