The smell of burnt cheddar and cheap white bread lingered in the air, a greasy perfume that seemed to offend the very fibers of Reid's bespoke wool trousers. He was sitting on the edge of my bed—the only bed—staring at the small, chipped ceramic plate in his lap as if it were a prehistoric artifact.
"You're supposed to eat it, Reid. Not perform an autopsy on it," I said, leaning against the counter of my kitchenette, which was exactly two steps away from him.
"I am merely marveling at the structural integrity," he murmured, taking a tentative bite. He chewed slowly, his eyes widening slightly. "It's... salty. And remarkably crisp."
"That's the 'intuition' seasoning I told you about. Also known as salted butter and a pan that's older than you are." I watched him, my heart doing a strange, fluttering dance.
In the Sterling townhouse, Reid had always seemed ten feet tall, surrounded by high ceilings and marble. Here, in my studio, he was a giant in a dollhouse. His broad shoulders seemed to take up half the room, and the way his long legs were tucked awkwardly to avoid hitting my drafting table made him look vulnerable. Human.
"We need to discuss the sleeping arrangements," Reid said, setting the plate aside. He looked at the bed—a double mattress with a faded quilt—and then at the hardwood floor, which was currently covered by a thin, woven rug.
"The floor is cold, the radiator leaks, and I'm pretty sure there's a family of dust bunnies under that rug planning a coup," I said, crossing my arms. "I'm not a martyr, Reid. And you're a grown man who just lost a billion dollars. I think we can handle sharing a mattress without it becoming a scandal."
Reid's gaze snapped to mine. The air in the room, already thick with the heat of the stove, suddenly felt impossible to breathe. "Maya, I am a man of many faults, but I have never been accused of lacking self-control. However, yesterday I kissed you in front of three dozen news cameras. I don't think 'logic' is our strongest suit right now."
"It's a bed, not a battlefield," I countered, though my voice lacked its usual Queens bite. "We put a pillow in the middle. We stay on our sides. It's the same rule as the townhouse, just... closer."
"Much closer," he whispered.
The transition to sleep was an exercise in extreme coordination. Reid changed in the bathroom—which was so cramped I heard him grunt when his elbow hit the medicine cabinet—and emerged wearing a pair of soft grey lounge pants he'd managed to pack. Seeing him without a shirt, his muscular chest illuminated by the amber glow of the streetlamp outside, made my throat go dry.
He slid under the quilt, the metal frame of the bed groaning in protest. I climbed in after him, hugging the very edge of the mattress.
"You're going to fall off," Reid said into the dark.
"I'm fine. I like the edge. It's... breezy."
"Maya. Turn around."
I hesitated, then slowly rolled over. We were face-to-face, our breaths mingling in the quiet space. The radiator gave a final, mournful hiss before falling silent. The only sound left was the distant thrum of the 7-train and the frantic rhythm of my own pulse.
"I spent my entire life thinking that the walls I built were made of gold," Reid said, his voice a low, jagged thread. "I thought if I had enough money, nobody could touch me. Not my father, not Marcus... nobody."
He reached out, his hand hovering over my cheek before he finally let his fingers graze my skin. His touch was cold, but it sent a shock of heat straight to my core.
"Now the gold is gone," he continued. "And the only thing left between me and the floor is a girl who makes grilled cheese and refuses to be bought. It's terrifying, Maya. It's more terrifying than the SEC or the Board."
"Why?" I breathed.
"Because I can't write a check to keep you here. I have to earn you. And I don't know if I have the currency for that."
I reached up, covering his hand with mine, pressing his palm firmly against my face. "You already earned me when you got down on one knee in a puddle of Queens rainwater, Reid. You didn't do that for a contract. You did that for us."
Reid pulled me closer, the "pillow barrier" we'd discussed forgotten in an instant. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling my back against his chest. He felt like a furnace—solid, warm, and real. For the first time in my life, the studio didn't feel small. It felt like a fortress.
"Tomorrow, we start the counter-offensive," Reid muttered into my hair. "I have a contact at the SEC. A man who owes my father a favor. If we can prove Marcus used a shell company to fund the hospice trust, we can flip the embezzlement charge back on him."
"And the money?" I asked, my eyes heavy with exhaustion and the comfort of his weight.
"The money will come back. Or it won't. But tonight..." He tightened his grip, his nose brushing the nape of my neck. "Tonight, I'm just a man in Queens. And that's enough."
I fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat—the most expensive thing I'd ever owned.
But at 3:00 AM, the quiet was shattered.
Not by the neighbor or the radiator, but by the heavy, rhythmic pounding of a fist on my front door.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
I bolted upright, my heart leaping into my throat. Reid was awake in an instant, his hand flying to the nightstand where his phone used to be, before remembering he was no longer in a house with a security detail.
"Maya Gable! Open up! We know you're in there!" a voice boomed from the hallway.
Reid shoved me behind him, his body a solid shield as he stood up. He grabbed a heavy metal drafting T-square from my desk—the only weapon available.
"Stay back," he hissed at me.
"Reid, wait—"
He reached the door and checked the peephole. His face went pale.
"Who is it?" I whispered, clutching the quilt to my chest.
Reid turned back to me, the T-square lowering. "It's not the police. And it's not the Board."
"Then who?"
"It's your landlord," Reid said, his voice tight. "And he's holding an eviction notice."
The war hadn't moved to the front page. It had moved to our front door. Marcus wasn't just freezing accounts; he was hunting us, one forty-eight-hour lease at a time.