The penthouse is unusually quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes after days of chaos. You lean into the doorway of the master bedroom, shoulder pressed lazily against the frame, your silk robe slipping just enough to reveal the curve of your collarbone. The mug of coffee in your hands radiates warmth, the steam curling upwards, catching in the faint morning light that filters through the half-drawn curtains.

Caleb is still in bed. Sheets of crisp white cotton are tangled around his lean frame, a stark contrast to his usual sharp, tailored suits. His arm rests carelessly across the mattress, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that’s steady, grounding. His dark hair is messy, strands falling over his forehead, softening the commanding lines of his face. The perpetual tension he wears during the day—shoulders squared, jaw set—is gone now, melted into the pillow. He looks younger like this, almost unguarded.

You take another sip of your coffee, letting the bitter warmth linger on your tongue as your gaze roams over him. The city skyline stretches behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but your eyes aren’t drawn there. They stay on him. Caleb Delaney—the man who never stops, who moves from deal to deal like it’s a war he can’t afford to lose—finally at rest.

The silk robe whispers against your skin as you shift your weight. The floor is cool under your bare feet, and the faint scent of his cologne clings to the air, threaded with the sharper aroma of coffee. You watch him breathe, your chest tightening with a quiet ache—because it’s rare to see him like this. Rare to see him without the armor of power and control, rare to be reminded that beneath the CEO, he’s just a man. Your man.

You linger in the doorway, half-tempted to wake him, half-desperate to let him have this peace for just a little longer.