You didn’t ask. You slipped his card into your wallet like it already belonged there, and now the bill sings with numbers you know should sting. Five figures, all for books.

He’s on the sofa when you come home, whisky in hand, tie undone, the weight of his day still hanging off him. He doesn’t speak when he sees the bags, just watches as you drop them onto his perfect rug and kneel among them, barefoot and grinning.

You pull out the first stack, hardcover spines flashing. You don’t understand, you tell him, lifting one high. This is the annotated edition. If you don’t have the annotations, you’re only half alive inside the story.

His eyes flicker, that slight narrowing he does when he wants to protest but doesn’t. You keep going, talking about margins, about notes, about words that feel like secrets tucked between lines.

He lets out a low hum, the sound vibrating through the rim of his glass. “Five figures on books,” he says, voice steady, almost lazy.

Five figures invested, you correct, stacking another pile. Big difference.

You nudge a philosophy tome across the rug toward him. This one’s for you. Dense, impossible, perfect. You’ll lose yourself in it.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You took my card without asking.” You tilt your head, smile unrepentant, already pulling another book free. If I had, you might’ve said no. And then none of this would exist.

The bags, the books, the warmth you’ve pulled into his pristine penthouse—it all blooms around you. And though he doesn’t say another word, you can feel it in the way he looks at you. The bill should matter. It doesn’t. Not when everything of his already belongs to you.