“Thank you,” you say.
He pauses.
Then, with unusual nervousness, he reaches into his coat pocket.
You point at him. “Careful.”
He laughs. “No ocean-running necessary.”
He pulls out a small box.
Not a ring box.
A key.
You blink.
“What is that?”
“A key to my house. Not because I expect you to move in. Not because I want to rush you. Not because I think access means ownership.” He places it on your desk. “Because you once told me no home ever felt like yours after your parents died. I want you to know there is a door open to you. Only if you want it.”
You stare at the key.
Then at him.
“That is dangerously thoughtful.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
You pick up the key and turn it over in your palm.
“I’m not ready to move in.”
“I know.”
“I may never want a giant billionaire house.”
“It has a library.”
You narrow your eyes. “Manipulative.”
“And a sewing room.”
You look up sharply.
He smiles.
That is how he gets you.
Not with diamonds.
With a sewing room.
You kiss him first.
It is not like kissing a memory.
That is what surprises you.
