Page 69 of The Silver Fox Brother

He kisses the top of my head.

"Always working. That brain of yours never stops."

I don't respond. We reach Gramercy Park by ten-twenty. The building's facade is lit beautifully at night, warm light spilling from the lobby windows. Daniel, the doorman, nods as we approach.

"Evening, Mr. Sterling., Ms. Hayes."

"Evening, Daniel," Rowan says.

We ride the elevator up in silence. Rowan checks his phone twice. I stare at the floor numbers ticking upward. Thirtieth floor.The doors open, and we walk down the hallway to our apartment.

Home.

Except it doesn't feel like home anymore. I'm not sure when it stopped feeling like home, but standing here now, watching Rowan unlock the door, I realize with sudden clarity: this space has been his all along. I've just been living in it.

We move through the apartment in the familiar routine of getting ready for bed. Rowan heads to the bedroom, loosening his tie. I stop in the kitchen for water, drinkit standing at the sink while looking at nothing in particular.

When I enter the bedroom, he's already changed—gray sweatpants, a t-shirt from some corporate 5K he ran two years ago. He's sitting on his side of the bed, scrolling through his phone.

I go to the closet, change out of the emerald dress and into a sleep shirt—oversized, soft, ending mid-thigh. Remove my jewelry, set it in the small dish on my dresser. Wash my face in the bathroom, brush my teeth, braid my hair loosely to keep it out of my face while I sleep.

When I return to the bedroom, Rowan is still on his phone.

I get into bed on my side, pull the covers up, and lie there staring at the ceiling.

The apartment is quiet except for the ambient sounds of the city filtering through the windows. A car horn somewhere below. The distant wail of a siren. The soft tap of Rowan's fingers on his phone screen.

My mind won't settle.

I keep seeing Knox's office. The construction site. The view from the penthouse level—Manhattan spreading below, rivers catching sunlight on both sides, the sheer scale of what he's building.

Three days to decide.

"You okay?" Rowan's voice pulls me back.

I turn my head to look at him. He's set his phone on the nightstand—face down, as always—and is watching me.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

"About?"

"Work. The Chen project. Timeline logistics."

He nods, loses interest immediately. Reaches over to turn off his bedside lamp.

The room dims to just the glow from my side of the bed.

"You coming to sleep?" he asks.

I reach for my own lamp. "Yeah."

The room goes dark. For a few minutes, we lie there in silence. I can hear his breathing, steady and even. My own breath feels too loud, too aware. Then I feel his hand on my waist.

"Winter."

His voice is different now. Lower. The tone I recognize.

He shifts closer, his hand moving from my waist to my hip, fingers slipping under the hem of my sleep shirt. Kisses my shoulder, then my neck. I don't pull away. Part of me wants to. Part of me is exhausted and still thinking about tomorrow and doesn't want this right now.