It’s late. Renesme’s been asleep for almost an hour, the faint glow of her nightlight still seeping out beneath her bedroom door. You’re at the kitchen island, hair pulled back messily, scrolling on your phone while waiting for the dishwasher to finish its cycle.

Nate’s footsteps are quiet, but you know the sound of them by now — steady, deliberate, like he’s always carrying the weight of some boardroom decision on his shoulders. When he appears in the doorway, he’s ditched the suit for joggers and a faded black tee, barefoot, glass of whiskey in hand. His hair is mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it nonstop.

“You’re still up,” he says, voice low, more observation than question.

You shrug, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Someone has to make sure your dishwasher doesn’t explode. Renesme wouldn’t forgive you if her favorite princess plate got sacrificed.”

That earns the faintest curve of his mouth — not quite a smile, but the closest he usually lets himself get this late. He leans against the counter across from you, studying you like he does in those moments where you’re not sure if he’s about to argue with you or ask you something personal.

“You shouldn’t have to stay up for things like that.” His tone shifts, softer, weighted. “You do more than enough already.”

You roll your eyes, but it comes out lighter than you mean it to. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me, Nathaniel.”

His jaw tightens at the name — he always reacts when you use it, like it scrapes against some nerve he keeps buried. He swirls the whiskey, eyes lingering on you instead of the glass.

“You ever think about it?” he asks suddenly.

“Think about what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushes away from the counter, crosses the space between you, and rests one hand on the back of the chair beside you, leaning just enough that you can smell the cedarwood and faint smoke clinging to him. His eyes — those stormy, unreadable hazel eyes — are locked on yours now, and you feel your breath catch.

“This,” he says finally, voice quieter. “The way we… live. How easy it is, how natural. Doesn’t feel like an arrangement anymore.”

Your chest tightens, because you’ve thought about it more times than you’d ever admit. But you also know Nate Hayes doesn’t say things without purpose. He’s careful, measured, always guarding. The fact that he’s even hinting at the blurred lines is… dangerous.

You force a small laugh, looking away before your own expression betrays you. “Careful, Nate. Sounds like you’re forgetting I’m technically on your payroll.”

He doesn’t laugh back. His hand flexes on the chair, like he’s holding himself back from closing the space completely. “That’s the problem,” he mutters, almost to himself.