The penthouse was quiet in that particular way only evening could bring—city lights breathing softly through the windows, the hum of traffic far below like a distant ocean. Grayson stepped inside just past nine, loosening his coat as he did. Elisabeth was still awake.She stood by the kitchen table, boots on, dark blue mid-rise jeans hugging her hips, black long-sleeve top tucked in neatly as if she’d never left the house. A folder was clutched in her hand, its corners bent from use. She paced slowly, lips moving in a quiet, relentless rhythm.
“…Basel III capital requirements—tier one ratios—systemic risk mitigation…”
Grayson didn’t interrupt.
He watched her for a moment, silver eyes softening. He saw the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightened every time she lost her place. He saw the exhaustion she refused to acknowledge, the perfectionism that kept her upright long past when her body asked for rest.
He closed the door quietly and hung his coat, movements unhurried, deliberate. Only when he was close enough for her to sense him did he speak.
“Elisabeth.”
She stopped mid-sentence, breath catching just slightly. “Hi,” she said, as if she hadn’t been spiraling seconds before. “I’m just—going over it one more time.”
He nodded once. “Of course you are.”
He reached for her gently, fingers brushing the folder first, lowering it from her grip with care, as though it were something fragile. Then his hands moved to her wrists—warm, grounding.
“You’ve been doing that since this morning,” he said, not as an accusation. Just a fact, spoken kindly.
She exhaled through her nose. “I know. I just—this morning I couldn’t remember anything. Not one thing. I studied all night and it was just… gone.” Her voice stayed steady, but he heard the echo of the tears she’d allowed him to see earlier. No one else.
He lifted his hand to her cheek, thumb resting just beneath her eye.
“And before you say anything,” she added softly, “I know what you told me this morning.”
His gaze softened further. He stepped closer, both hands coming up now, cupping her face with deliberate tenderness, as if she were something precious that required care.
“Let me remind you,” he murmured.
He kissed her forehead first—slow, reverent—then the bridge of her nose. His lips brushed her cheek, then the other, lingering there as though grounding himself in her warmth. A kiss followed along her jaw, unhurried, gentle, his thumbs lightly stroking her skin.
He kissed her eyelids—one, then the other—soft enough to barely be felt, before finally pressing his lips to hers. The kiss was tender, unrushed, nothing demanding in it—only reassurance, only presence. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in.
“You’re safe,” he said quietly. “You’re doing more than enough.”
She leaned into his touch despite herself.
He kissed her forehead—slow, lingering—then rested his brow against hers for a moment, grounding them both. “And I told you then,” he murmured, “that your mind was exhausted, not empty.”
She leaned into his touch despite herself.
He kissed her forehead—slow, lingering—then rested his brow against hers for a moment, grounding them both. “And I told you then,” he murmured, “that your mind was exhausted, not empty.”
She shook her head faintly. “I hate not being in control.”
“I know,” he said. “And I still love you when you’re not.”
That made her finally look at him.
His expression was calm, serious in the way he always was—but threaded with unmistakable gentleness. Grayson Hawthorne never raised his voice. Never dismissed. Never withdrew warmth as punishment. His love was quiet, consistent, intentional.
He bent slightly, unlacing her boots without asking. One foot, then the other. He set them aside neatly, then helped her slip out of her coat as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Come sit,” he said.
She let him guide her to the couch. H