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And if I refuse? Would that impact on whatever it is we have going on here?

“I don’t know your friends,” I said at last.

“You’ll survive.” He smiled. “They don’t bite.”

“That’s not what concerns me.”

He went still. “Then what does?”

I held his gaze. “Being seen.”

His breathing hitched. “If it helps, they already like you.”

“How is that possible?”

Quinn smiled. “Because I do.”

I looked down at my tea.

Dinner meant stepping into his world, sitting at a table, and being Max.

“I don’t promise to be charming,” I said at last.

He smiled. “I don’t need charming.” A pause. “When could you fit us in?”

I considered the calendar in my head. The care home shift. Rehearsal. Obsidian.

Sooner would be better. Get it over with.

“How much notice would they need?”

“How about this weekend?”

I nodded. “Fine. Let me know when you’ve fixed a time.”

His eyes lit up. “Okay. Good.”

“However,” I added, “you’d better warn them that I’ll ask questions too.”

He grinned. “Oh, they’ll love that.” He pushed his chair back. “Bathroom. Be right back.” He hurried out of the kitchen.

Then it hit me.

I’d just agreed to something far more intimate than a scene.

I’d agreed to sit at his table.

I replayed the exchange in my head. He hadn’t framed it as a test or even a milestone. He hadn’t attached any expectation to it. He’d simply said he wasn’t hiding me.

That was the part that lodged under my ribs.

I’ve never considered myself someone who hides. Contain? Yes.

I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. Dinner meant stepping into his world without the insulation of leather and protocol. Being assessed not for my competence in a scene, but for my character in a kitchen.

There’s no negotiation template for that.

If I sit at that table and feel… comfortable⁠—