The morning sun filtered softly through the gauzy curtains of the penthouse dining room, casting golden light on the pristine white marble floors. Sloane sat at the long table, dressed in his usual sharp three-piece suit, a newspaper folded neatly beside his untouched black coffee. Across from him, Avery moved with practiced grace as he poured himself orange juice—measured, distant, not once meeting Sloane's eyes.
"Did you sleep well?" Sloane asked, voice carefully neutral.
Avery nodded, smiling faintly. "Well enough."
Silence settled between them like fog. Sugar, Sloane's spoiled Persian cat, padded into the room and rubbed against Avery's leg. He crouched down to scoop her up without a word, holding her close. His smile at her affection didn't reach his eyes.
Sloane noticed.
The kiss—almost-kiss—hung between them like a specter neither could ignore.
"You were right last night," Avery said after a long pause. "We shouldn't confuse comfort for anything else."
