New York — His Penthouse, Rain Against the Windows

The bag is on the counter. Still in the box. Still with the ribbon.

You stared at it like it might bite.

Clayton leaned against the wall, arms crossed, calm as ever in a fitted black sweater, sleeves pushed up, his watch catching the low kitchen light. Watching you pace like you were the unpredictable one.

“You said you liked it.”

“I said I saw it,” you snapped. “In a window. Once. That doesn’t mean you were supposed to buy it.”

He said nothing. Of course he didn’t.

“You don’t get to do that, Clayton. You don’t get to throw money at me like I’m some—some lifestyle accessory.”

Still, no answer. Just that maddening, unreadable expression.

You pointed at the box like it had personally insulted you. “That bag costs more than my rent. For two months.”

He lifted one brow, almost lazily. “Three, actually.”

You stared at him.

Then turned away, muttering, “Oh my god.”

The silence stretched, tense and static, until he finally pushed off the wall and walked toward you. Calm, quiet, sure-footed. You didn’t want him to come closer. You did want him to come closer.

You didn’t turn around when he stopped just behind you.

“You think I’m trying to buy you?” he asked quietly.

“I think you’re trying to prove something. And I don’t want you to. I’m not with you for—”

You didn’t get to finish.

Because his hand came up, slow and steady, fingers brushing your jaw as he turned your face to his—and kissed you.

Firm.

Possessive.

Unapologetic.

Your words dissolved instantly. Because that’s who he was: the man who could kiss you mid-argument and make you forget what you were mad about. Not by charm. Not by manipulation. But by conviction.

He kissed like he owned his choices. Like he didn’t need your permission. Like he already knew the fight was just your pride picking a battle your heart had already surrendered.

When he finally pulled back, just barely, his voice was low, rough at the edges.

“I don’t buy things to impress you. I buy them because I notice what you look at when you think I’m not watching.”

You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

“I don’t care what it costs,” he added. “If you want it, it’s yours. Not because you need me. But because I like knowing you’ll reach for something and find it already in your hands.”

He stepped back then. Slowly. Giving you space.

But his eyes didn’t waver.

“Let yourself have nice things,” he said. “You deserve them. Even when you don’t think you do.”

And with that, he walked back to the other room—leaving the box on the counter, ribbon still tied.

You stared at it for another long minute.

Then sighed.

And untied it.