You’d been half-awake for the last few minutes—aware of the cool silk sheets, the faint hum of the city outside the penthouse windows, and the feeling of being watched. Not in a bad way. In a way that made your skin burn beneath the covers.

You open your eyes slowly. Clayton is already standing by the edge of the bed, barefoot, wearing nothing but his robe and that unreadable expression he always wears when he doesn’t want to say too much.

He doesn’t look startled that you caught him. He just blinks, slow, like maybe he’d been watching for a while. And maybe he had.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” you ask softly.

He moves closer. Not fast. Not intense. Just quiet. Controlled. His fingers reach for your face, brushing the sleep-warm skin of your cheek like he’s still not sure you’re real. Then, in that low voice he only uses when no one else is listening, he says:

“Because I don’t understand how someone like you chose someone like me.”

You sit up. He doesn’t stop you. He just stands there, hand still lingering at your jaw, eyes scanning your face like he’s reading a language he’ll never fully translate.

“And every night I watch you sleep,” he continues, “just to remind myself that you stayed. That you came back. That I haven’t lost you... yet.”