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The answer settles something in me. I lift her hand and press my mouth lightly against her knuckles. She smiles as I pull her closer and keep her there. For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. Her hands rest against my chest, my arms are around her waist, and the space that's existed between us for days finally closes.

I lower my forehead to hers.

"I missed you," I say.

Her eyes lift to mine. "I missed you too."

Something in my chest loosens. I kiss her slowly, without rushing it. The first touch of her mouth feels less like hunger and more like relief, and when she leans into me, trusting me enough to soften again, it hits me harder than I expect.

I slide one hand into her hair and kiss her deeper. She grips the front of my shirt, and the heat between us builds naturally from there. She starts opening the buttons of my shirt while I push her sweater up over her head. There's urgency now, but it's different from the kind we've had before. It isn't about taking. It's about getting back to each other.

By the time I lift her, her arms circle my neck and her legs wrap around my waist. I carry her down the hallway toward the bedroom while she kisses me again, and every step feels like an answer to the last few days.

When I lower her onto the bed, she reaches for me immediately. That matters more than I know how to explain. Her trust doesn't feel casual anymore. It feels given. And every time she gives it to me, it does something permanent to the way I see her.

There's something almost unbearable about being wanted by her right now. Not forgiven because I explained myself well enough. Not indulged because the attraction between us is easy. She's here because we fought, and she's choosing me again anyway.

The realization hits hard enough to make my chest tighten. Beneath the hunger is something that unsettles me far more.

I want this too much.

I kiss her harder, because feeling that is suddenly easier than thinking about what it means.

The rest of our clothes don't survive long. I take my time with her anyway: my mouth moving slowly down her body, her fingers tangled in my hair, the soft, broken sounds she makes when she comes apart beneath me. Nothing about tonight is rushed.

When I move inside her, she holds my face in her hands and keeps her eyes open, watching me the entire time, and it undoes me more thoroughly than anything we've done before. I’m inside of her twice more before midnight, as our bodies sync in rhythm with each other.

Hours later, as Blaire is curled against me beneath the sheets, her body still warm and loose, one leg draped across mine and her cheek resting against my chest. My breathing has finally slowed enough to match hers, and every now and then I feel the faint rhythm of her heartbeat where she's pressed against me.

I keep one arm around her and run my hand slowly along her back. What gets to me most isn't the sex still sitting under my skin — it's this part afterward: the weight of her against me, the trust in the way she sleeps here without hesitation, and the fact that after the argument, after the distance, she is still here.

I should be able to let the moment stay exactly where it is. Instead my mind starts moving forward — not to next week or the end of the project, but farther than that.

I picture Blaire in my flat in the morning, sitting across from me at breakfast, moving through rooms that have never held anyone long enough to leave an impression. I picture her months from now, then beyond that, and the ease with which the image forms unsettles me more than I want to admit.

I have spent my life thinking in structures — companies, trusts, estates, obligations, each with a framework and a next step. I have never thought about a woman that way. Wanting Blaire inside the shape of my life feels different because there's no document to define it and no clean way to control where it leads.

I don't push the thought away. I look down at her, brush my fingers through her hair, and let myself imagine that she could still be here long after everything that brought us together has changed.

Blaire shifts closer in her sleep. I tighten my arm around her. For once, the future I want has nothing to do with duty.

Chapter Thirteen

Blaire

By the beginning of the third month, the collection has stopped feeling like a project that belongs only to the library.

The change happens gradually. A provenance question becomes a legal review. A valuation update brings in insurance. A transport note triggers a security consultation. By Wednesday morning, I’m sitting at the long conference table in one of the estate offices with Margaret, Katherine Wolfe from family counsel, two representatives from the family office, an insurance specialist and a trustee I’ve only met once before.

The painting in question is sitting three rooms away.

The conversation around it stretches across ownership history, insurance exposure, tax treatment, storage, lending restrictions and whether moving it between properties requires additional approval. I listen, take notes and answer when the discussion reaches the records I’ve been reviewing.

“The London file supports the later transfer date,” I say, sliding one of the documents across the table.

“But the Geneva inventory still reflects the earlier entry. I’d reconcile those before anyone treats either version as final.”

Katherine looks down at the page.