Chapter 6: Studio Surrender
The studio smelled of graphite dust and old coffee, a scent that clung to the air like a second skin. Mary stood in the doorway for a moment, clutching the letter in her hand, the paper warm from her grip. Will moved past her, shedding his leather jacket and tossing it over the back of a worn armchair. He didn't look at her, not yet. He went straight to his drafting table, where blueprints sprawled in messy layers, and he set his hands on the edges as if grounding himself.
Mary let her eyes wander. Tall windows let in the amber glow of early evening, casting long shadows across the floor. Shelves stacked with sketchbooks and reference texts lined one wall. A leather couch sat against the other, low and wide, scattered with loose sheets of tracing paper. It was intimate in a way his apartment hadn't been, more personal, more him.
She perched on the edge of the couch, the letter still in her hands. The words she had read that morning were burned into her brain. Every line, every raw confession. She hadn't been able to put it down since he'd handed it to her, and now she ran her thumb along the crease where he'd folded it.
The silence stretched. Will picked up a pencil, set it down. Picked up a ruler, abandoned it. He stood there, shoulders tense under his band shirt, and she could see the battle in the set of his spine.
"You don't have to work," she said softly. "I can just sit here. Watch you."
He turned then, and his eyes were wild. The kind of wild she'd seen in him at the coffee shop, the way he'd look through her like she was a question he couldn't solve. But now there was something else, something hungry and broken all at once.
"Weeks," he said. "I wrote that letter weeks ago, and I've been coming to your shop every single day since, watching you smile at strangers, watching you hand them their shitty lattes like you were handing them pieces of your heart. And every day I told myself to stop. To burn the letter and never come back. And every day I walked in anyway."
Mary's breath caught. She stood, the letter crumpling slightly in her grip. "Will..."
"Don't." His voice cracked. "Don't say anything nice. Don't make this softer than it is. I am a man who wrote you a letter warning you to stay away, and then I fucked you in my bed and begged you to come to my studio. Look at the state of me. I'm a ruin, Mary."
She crossed the room to him. He flinched slightly when she reached out, but she didn't stop. She set the letter on the edge of the table, then placed her palm flat against his chest, feeling the quick, desperate drum of his heart under her fingers.
"I read it," she said. "Every word. And I came here anyway. That's not you ruining me. That's me choosing you."
He stared at her, his jaw tight. And then something in him broke. She saw it happen, the way his eyes went dark and his hands shot out, gripping her hips and hauling her against him. His mouth crashed into hers, not gentle, not asking. It was a claim, a taking, and she gasped against his lips as his tongue swept in.
He walked her backward until her spine hit the edge of the drafting table. Papers scattered, blueprints sliding to the floor in crackling waves. His hands were everywhere, fisting in her blazer, tearing at the buttons with a patience he clearly didn't possess. Mary heard one pop and skitter across the floor, and she laughed against his mouth, a breathless sound that turned into a moan when he bit her lower lip.
"I can't think when you're in the room," he growled, shoving the blazer off her shoulders. "I can't draw. I can't breathe. You're in my goddamn blood, Mary."
She pulled at his shirt, yanking it over his head. The evening light painted his skin gold. She wanted to touch every inch of him, but he wasn't having it. He spun her around, pressing her chest against the drafting table, her palms flat on the scattered sketches. One hand pushed up her skirt, bunching the fabric at her waist, and she heard him curse at the sight of her bare ass.
"No panties," he said, his voice ragged. "You came to my studio with no fucking panties, Mary?"
"I didn't plan on staying," she gasped, but it was a lie. She had taken them off in the bathroom at the coffee shop after her shift, knowing, knowing, what she wanted.
His hand cracked against her ass, a sharp, stinging slap that made her cry out. He did it again, and she arched into him, her fingers curling against the blueprints.
"You planned this," he said, the words low and dark. "You planned to get me like this."
He dropped to his knees behind her, and she felt his mouth on her, hot and insistent, his tongue dragging through her slick folds. She moaned, loud and unashamed, as he worked her open, his fingers joining his tongue, pushing inside her, stretching her. He was merciless, curling them just right, and she was already trembling when he pulled away.
"Turn around," he said, and she didn't think, just obeyed. He lifted her onto the drafting table, clearing a space with a sweep of his arm that sent more papers flying. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and she felt him, hard and heavy against her thigh.
"Will," she breathed.
"Say you want it," he demanded, his hands bruising on her hips. "Say you want me to fuck you on my desk like the desperate little thing you are."
"I want it." She looked him in the eyes. "I want you. Fuck me, Will. Ruin me."
He slammed into her, one brutal thrust that seated him to the hilt. She screamed, nails raking into his shoulders, and he buried his face in her neck, groaning as he started to move. The pace was punishing, nothing like the slow, measured fucking of that morning. This was desperation, pure and raw, his hips slamming into her with a force that rattled the drafting table and sent sketches sliding to the floor.
"God," he gasped. "You're so goddamn tight. You're going to be the death of me."
She cried out with every thrust, her fingers digging into his back, his arm, anything. He lifted her legs higher, changing the angle, and she went rigid as he hit that spot deep inside her, a bolt of white-hot pleasure that tore a scream from her throat.
"I'm close," she sobbed. "Will, I'm so close."
"Come for me," he growled. "Come on my cock and let me feel you."
She shattered. Her body convulsed around him, her inner walls clenching hard, and he followed with a guttural curse, spilling deep inside her. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to hers, both of them panting and slick with sweat.
The blueprints lay forgotten on the floor. His client's work was scattered like leaves. Mary didn't care. She reached up and stroked his hair back from his forehead, and he watched her with those wild, desperate eyes.
"Stay," he said, the word rough and raw. "Just stay."
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him, soft and slow, and he sank into her like she was the only anchor he had.
"Yes," she whispered against his mouth, the word barely a breath. "Yes, Will. I'll stay."
He let out a shuddering exhale, the tension draining from his shoulders like a string finally cut. His arms tightened around her, pulling her flush against his sweat-slick chest, and he buried his face in her hair, breathing her in. She felt his cock soften inside her, still resting deep, and she didn't want him to move. She wanted to stay like this, joined, anchored to him, the rough edge of the drafting table digging into her thighs a small price for the weight of him against her.
He kissed her temple, then her forehead, then the corner of her mouth. His hands moved up her body, tracing her ribs, her waist, her breasts, as if he was memorizing her by touch alone. She let him, arching into his palms, her fingers threading through the fine hair at the nape of his neck.
"Say it again," he murmured, his voice rough and low.
"Yes," she said, and this time she made it a promise, firm and clear. "I'm staying."
He pulled out of her slowly, and she felt the loss of him like a physical ache, a gush of warmth spilling down her thighs. He looked at her, pupils blown wide, and then he laughed, a soft, disbelieving sound. It was the first time she'd ever heard him laugh, a real laugh, and it transformed his face.
"Look at this place," he said, gesturing at the chaos they'd made. Blueprints scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. Pencils and rulers knocked to the ground. A cup of cold coffee tipped over, its contents staining a corner of a client's schematic. "I have a deadline in three days, and I just fucked my muse on the desk."
Mary grinned, her cheeks hot. "Your muse?"
"Fuck yes." He hooked his hands under her thighs and lifted her off the table, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her skirt fell around her hips, useless, and her blazer lay in a discarded heap on the floor. He carried her across the studio, stepping over the wreckage, and dropped her onto the leather couch. She bounced, laughing, and he came down on top of her, his body covering hers, the heat of him searing through her thin shirt.
"You're going to be a problem," he said, his nose brushing hers. "You know that, right? I won't get any work done. I'll just sit here and stare at you, and think about how beautiful you are, and how you let me fuck you on my goddamn worktable."
"That sounds like a you problem," she said, and she reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, slow and deep, tasting herself on his tongue, tasting his desperation and his relief.
The letter lay where she'd left it, on the edge of the drafting table. She could see it from here, the folded paper, the ink bleeding through. It sat between them still, a third presence in the room, the weight of his obsession made visible. But she had read it, and she had come anyway, and she wasn't afraid.
They lay tangled on the couch, the evening light deepening into dusk, casting the studio in shades of amber and gold. Will traced the line of her jaw with his fingertips, then the curve of her collarbone, then the shape of her lips. He was exquisitely gentle, a stark contrast to the brutal urgency of before.
"I have a confession," he said quietly.
She raised an eyebrow. "Another one? You're going to run out of paper."
He snorted, but his eyes were serious. "I didn't think you'd come. When I wrote that letter, I thought... I thought you'd read it and never look at me again. I thought I'd have to find a new coffee shop, a new corner to haunt, a new face to lose myself in."
"And instead I'm in your studio, bare-assed on your couch."
"Bare-assed on my couch," he echoed, and he kissed her again, softer this time. "You're the best decision I never made, Mary."
Something in her chest went tight. She didn't have words for what he did to her, the way he could be all fire and ruin one moment and then this, fragile and raw, the next. She ran her palm down his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath her hand.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "I know what I'm getting into. I read the fine print."
He closed his eyes and let out a breath. And then he moved, shifting off her, and she felt the chill where his body had been. He reached over the side of the couch and retrieved her discarded blazer, draping it over her shoulders loosely. He found her panties, tangled in the mess of papers, and handed them to her with a crooked grin that was almost boyish.
"You'll need these," he said.
She took them, but didn't put them on, just let them dangle from her fingers. He raised an eyebrow but didn't push. He walked to a small kitchenette in the corner of the studio, the clink of glass and the hiss of the kettle filling the quiet. Mary watched him, this man who had written her a letter warning her to stay away and then fucked her like she was the only thing keeping him alive.
He came back with two cups of cheap instant coffee, the same kind he probably drank at his desk during long nights staring at blueprints. He handed her one and settled beside her, his thigh pressed against hers, their shoulders brushing.
"To ruin," he said, raising his cup.
She clinked hers against it. "To choosing it."
They drank. The coffee was bitter, but it was warm, and she was here, wrapped in his leather-scented blazer, his hand resting on her bare thigh beneath the couch's edge. The blueprints lay forgotten, the client's deadline unanswered, the world outside the tall windows fading to violet and then to darkness.
Mary set her cup aside and leaned into him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder. She felt his arm come around her, pulling her close.
"I'm staying," she murmured against him. "Tonight. Tomorrow. Whatever you need."
His lips pressed to her hairline. "That's all I've ever needed."
They stayed like that for a while longer, the silence a thing they shared rather than a thing that held them apart. Mary's eyes drifted shut, her body warm and heavy against his side, and she might have fallen asleep there, tangled in his leather-scented blazer on a couch surrounded by the wreckage of his work, if his hand hadn't started moving again.
It was a slow, unconscious motion at first, his palm tracing the shape of her thigh, up and over her hip, back down again. She felt his fingers drift higher, brushing the damp skin between her legs, and she made a soft sound, not quite a protest. He found her still slick and swollen, and he dragged his fingers through her folds in a slow, deliberate pass that made her breath catch.
"You're still wet," he said, and his voice had gone rough again, edged with something that made her stomach flip.
"We just had sex," she murmured. "Of course I'm still wet."
He didn't answer. He just kept touching her, lazily, his fingertips finding her clit and circling it with a pressure that was almost too gentle. She arched into his hand, and she saw him watch her, his eyes dark and focused.
"I keep thinking about the letter," he said. "You're holding it in your hands, reading every word, and I'm standing there in the coffee shop pretending I'm a normal man who just came in for a latte."
"You're not a normal man," she said.
"No." He pulled his hand away and stood, and she watched him cross the room. He went to the drafting table, the one they'd just fucked on, and he picked up the letter from the edge where she'd placed it. He held it for a moment, then set it down in the center of the table, a deliberate placement, a marker.
"Come here," he said, and it wasn't a request.
She rose from the couch, leaving her blazer behind, and walked to him naked from the waist down, her thin shirt hanging loose around her thighs. He caught her by the hips when she reached him and turned her, pressing her back against the table's edge. His hands came up to cup her face, and he kissed her, deep and searching, as if he was trying to read the answer to a question he hadn't yet asked.
Then he lifted her, a smooth, effortless motion, and set her down on the drafting table. Her bare ass met the paper surface, cold against her skin, and she gasped. He stepped between her legs, spreading them wide, and his hands found the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head. She sat before him naked, the blueprints beneath her, the letter beside her hip, and he looked at her like she was something he had built, something he had made.
"This is my desk," he said, his voice low. "This is where I work. This is where I think. This is where I draw the things that pay my rent."
She nodded, breathless.
"And I can't look at it without thinking about you." He leaned over her, one hand planted on the table beside her thigh, the other cupping her jaw. "You're going to be in every sketch I make, every blueprint I draw. You're going to be behind my eyes every time I pick up a pencil."
He kissed her again, and this time it was slower, more deliberate. He tasted like instant coffee and something darker, and she let him consume her, her arms wrapping around his neck. She felt his free hand move down her body, tracing her stomach, her hip, then gripping her thigh and hiking her leg up around his waist. She felt his cock, hard against her, and she knew he hadn't taken his jeans off yet, hadn't done anything to prepare.
"Do it," she whispered against his mouth. "Will, do it."
He didn't need to be told twice. He undid his jeans with a rough, urgent motion, shoving them and his boxers down just far enough. Then his hand was between them, gripping himself, and she felt the blunt head of his cock against her entrance, slippery with her wetness.
He looked down at her, at the way she was spread across his work, the letter inches from her fingers, and something in his expression cracked open.
"Say it one more time," he said. "Say you're staying."
"I'm staying," she said, and he drove into her.
The force of it lifted her off the table, her back arching, a cry torn from her throat. He pulled out almost entirely and drove in again, harder, the drafting table scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. There was nothing gentle in him now. He fucked her with the same desperation as before, but there was more in it now, more weight, more ownership. He gripped her hips and slammed her down onto his cock with every thrust, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on hers.
"This is my desk," he said again, his voice raw. "And you're mine. You're standing in the middle of my life and telling me you're not going anywhere, and I'm going to make sure I believe it."
She moaned, her head falling back. His hand came up to her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, the pressure of his palm a reminder. She felt his thumb brush over her pulse, and she choked out a breathless laugh that turned into a gasp when he angled his hips and hit her deeper.
"I'm going to love you," he said, and the word was a curse, a confession, a promise all tangled together. "I'm going to ruin you and love you and never let you go, and you're going to let me, aren't you?"
"Yes," she sobbed. "God, yes."
He bent over her, his chest pressed to hers, his mouth at her ear, and he fucked her with long, grinding strokes that made her see stars. She could feel herself climbing, that familiar heat building low in her belly, and she knew he could feel it too, the way she tightened around him.
"Come on my desk," he whispered. "Come on my work, on my sketches, on everything I've ever made. Mark it all, Mary. Make it yours."
She came with a scream, her body convulsing around him, her nails raking down his back. He shouted her name and drove into her once more, twice, and came inside her with a shudder, his forehead pressed to hers, both of them breathing in ragged, broken gasps.
He collapsed against her, his weight a comfort, and she wrapped her arms around him and held him there, the blueprints crinkling beneath her, his letter beside them, all of it his.
The knock shattered the quiet like a stone through glass.
Will froze above her, his body still pressed against hers, the two of them joined in the cooling aftermath of his confession. His eyes snapped to the door, wide and sharp, a flash of something raw flickering across his face before he masked it. Mary's heart hammered, her thighs still trembling around his waist.
"Expecting someone?" she whispered.
"No." He pulled out of her slowly, and she felt the warm trickle of him down her thigh, a messy, intimate reminder of what they'd just done. He reached for his jeans, yanking them up with quick, practiced motions, his cock still slick and half-hard. "Fuck. Stay here. Don't move."
He crossed the studio, stepping over the scattered blueprints, and pressed his eye to the peephole. His shoulders relaxed, but only slightly. He turned back to her, his voice low.
"It's Chloe."
Mary's blood went cold. "What?"
"Your roommate. She's standing in the hallway." He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. "You want me to tell her to fuck off?"
"No. God, no." Mary scrambled off the drafting table, her legs unsteady, her skirt still bunched around her waist. She grabbed the blazer he'd draped over her earlier and pulled it on, buttoning it with shaking fingers. It was too short, barely covering her hips, and she knew, knew, she looked exactly like what she was: a woman who'd just been fucked senseless on a graphic designer's desk. "What is she doing here? How does she know where your studio is?"
"I gave her the address months ago. In case you ever needed me and couldn't reach me." He shrugged, an apology in the gesture. "She's your best friend. I figured it was smart."
"Will." Mary's voice was high. "She can't see me like this."
Through the door, Chloe's voice came, bright and sing-song. "Mary? I know you're in there. Your car is still in the shop and you texted me the address this morning. Also, your landlord called me because you left your phone in your apartment and he found it, and I was in the neighborhood, and I'm nosy, so." A pause. "You okay in there?"
Will looked at Mary, and something dark and amused flickered in his eyes. He crossed to the door and opened it before Mary could stop him.
Chloe stood in the hallway, a takeout bag in one hand and Mary's phone in the other. She was petite like Mary, with a riot of red curls and a face that was perpetually arched in amusement. Her grin faltered when she saw Will, then slid to Mary, standing half-dressed behind him, her blazer askew, her hair a wreck.
"Oh," Chloe said, her eyes wide. "Oh, my god. You're fucking him."
"Chloe." Mary's voice was strangled.
"That's where you've been all day. You texted me this morning saying you had a shift, and I went by the coffee shop because I thought we could get lunch, and Sal said you'd called in sick. You've been here. Getting fucked." Chloe stepped past Will into the studio, her eyes sweeping over the chaos. Blueprints everywhere. A tipped cup of coffee. Pencils on the floor. The leather couch, rumpled. "Wow. Okay. This is not what I expected, but I'm not shocked."
"Chloe." Mary crossed to her, grabbing her arm. "Please. Let me explain."
"Explain what? That you've been banging the hot regular who stares at you like you're a glass of water and he's been in a desert for a week?" Chloe laughed, setting the takeout bag on the edge of the drafting table. She looked at Will, who stood with his arms crossed, watching her with an unreadable expression. "I'm Chloe. I've heard a lot about you. Mostly from Mary, when she's drunk, which is honestly the only time she talks about anyone."
"Chloe," Mary hissed.
Will extended a hand. "Will Stecher. I've heard a lot about you too. Mary talks about you when she's not drunk, which is how I know you're her best friend, you're scared of pigeons, and you once cried at a commercial for a car that could parallel park itself."
Chloe's eyes lit up. "She told you about the pigeon thing?"
"With great detail."
Chloe turned to Mary, her grin wide. "Okay. I like him. He's got a good memory. But," she said, turning back to Will, "I'm going to need you to know that if you hurt her, I have access to her backup keys, and I'm not afraid to let the air out of your tires. All four. Meanwhile, I can't reach the valve stem, so I've been practicing. My roommate's boyfriend's a dick."
"I believe you," Will said, deadpan. "You have a very convincing stance."
Chloe laughed, a bright sound that filled the studio. She looked around again, at the wreckage, at the letter still on the drafting table, its paper catching the fading light. She picked it up before Mary could stop her.
"Letter?" she said, scanning it. Her face went through several expressions: confusion, surprise, concern, and finally, a slow, dawning understanding. She looked up at Will, then at Mary, and her voice was softer. "You wrote this?"
"Yeah." Will's voice was quiet. "Weeks ago. Before anything happened."
Chloe read a few more lines, then set the paper down gently. She looked at Mary, and there was something in her eyes, not judgment, but worry. "You read this? And you stayed?"
"I chose to stay," Mary said. "I chose him."
Chloe was quiet for a long moment. Then she crossed to Mary and pulled her into a tight hug. "Okay," she said into Mary's hair. "Okay. You're a grown woman. You get to make your own mistakes. Or your own miracles. I don't know which this is yet." She pulled back, her eyes wet. "But I'm here. Either way. Just so you know."
Mary hugged her back, a lump in her throat. "I know. Thank you."
Chloe stepped back, wiping her eyes, and turned to Will. "She's a good one. The best. You know that, right? You don't just get to claim her with scary letters and good dick. You have to be good to her. Actually good. Not just obsessed."
"I know," Will said. "I'm trying. I'm going to try for the rest of my life."
Chloe studied him for a moment, then nodded, as if she'd found what she was looking for. "Okay. I brought dumplings. I was going to eat them alone in my car while I called you and guilt-tripped you about abandoning me, but now I think I'll just leave them here. You two look like you could use the calories."
She grabbed Mary's phone from the table and pressed it into Mary's hands. "Text me later. Let me know you're alive." She looked at Will, a glint in her eye. "And if you break her heart, I'll find you. I promise you. I'll find you."
"I don't doubt it," Will said.
Chloe left, closing the door behind her. The studio was quiet again, the echo of her footsteps fading down the hallway. Mary stood there, clutching her phone, her heart full to bursting.
Will crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. "I like her," he murmured. "She's fierce. I can see why you're friends."
"She's the best," Mary said. "She's going to hold this over me for years. 'Remember when I caught you half-naked in your fuckboy's studio?'"
"She's not wrong," Will said, and he kissed the back of her neck. "But you're not half-naked. You're mostly naked. There's a difference."
She laughed in his arms, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and unguarded, and the last of the tension drained out of her body. She turned in his embrace, her hands coming up to frame his face, and she kissed him, not with the desperate hunger of before but with something lighter, almost giddy.
"You're ridiculous," she said against his mouth. "Completely, absolutely ridiculous."
"I know," he said, and he was smiling. She could feel it, the curve of his lips against hers. "But you're staying anyway."
"Apparently." She pulled back, her hands still on his face, and she looked at him, this man who had written her a letter warning her to stay away and then fucked her on his desk like she was the only thing keeping him alive. "Chloe likes you. That's a big deal. She doesn't like anyone."
"She has good instincts." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "She knows you deserve someone who'd burn the world down for you."
"Is that what you'd do?"
"I'd start with the blueprints." He gestured at the wreckage around them, and she laughed again, the sound echoing in the quiet studio. "I already did."
The takeout bag sat on the edge of the drafting table, a small, mundane intrusion of the outside world. Mary's stomach growled, and she felt her cheeks flush. Will heard it too, and he raised an eyebrow.
"Dumplings," he said. "Your friend has impeccable timing."
"She always did." Mary slipped out of his arms and crossed to the table, pulling the bag open. The smell of soy and ginger filled the studio, warm and comforting. She found two sets of chopsticks and a pair of sauce containers, and she held one out to him. "Eat. You just burned about a thousand calories."
He took the container from her, their fingers brushing. "Are you going to feed me?"
"I'm going to watch you eat and judge your chopstick technique."
They settled on the leather couch, the dumplings between them, the blueprints still scattered across the floor like the aftermath of a small, beautiful war. Mary ate with more appetite than she'd expected, the savory warmth of the dumplings grounding her in a way that surprised her. Will ate too, quieter, his eyes returning to her again and again as if he couldn't quite believe she was still there.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, setting down her chopsticks.
"Anything."
"That letter." She looked at him, at the way his jaw tightened at the mention of it. "You said you wrote it weeks ago. Before anything happened. Why didn't you send it?"
He was quiet for a moment, the dumpling suspended in his chopsticks. "Because I thought if I sent it, you'd stop coming. And I'd rather have you looking at me like I was just a customer than have you look at me like I was a threat."
"But I came anyway. Even after reading it."
"You did." He set down his chopsticks, his eyes finding hers. "And I don't know what I did to deserve that, but I'm not going to question it. I'm just going to try to be worth it."
"You already are." She reached out, her hand finding his on the couch between them. "You're worth it, Will. The letter, the obsession, all of it. You're worth the risk."
He looked at her hand on his, then back up at her face, and something in his eyes softened, cracked open. He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, a gesture so tender it made her chest ache.
"Mary," he said, her name a prayer on his lips. "I don't know how to be normal about this. I don't know how to not want you every second of every day. But I'll try. I'll try to be the man you think I am."
"You don't have to try." She leaned into him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder. "You just have to be here. That's enough."
He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close, and they sat there in the quiet studio, the dumplings half-eaten, the blueprints forgotten, the letter still on the drafting table. The evening had deepened into full night, the tall windows showing a velvet darkness studded with city lights.
Mary thought about Chloe's face when she'd read the letter, the worry in her eyes. She thought about the words on the page, written in the dark by a man who was terrified of his own feelings. And she thought about the fact that she was here, in his arms, with no intention of leaving.
"I should text Chloe," she murmured. "Let her know I'm still alive."
"She knows." Will's voice was warm against her hair. "She could tell. The way you looked when I opened the door. She knows you're more than alive."
Mary smiled, pulling out her phone. She typed a quick message, a simple I'm okay. Talk tomorrow. The reply came almost instantly, a string of emojis and a single sentence: And I'm making 'I caught you getting dicked down in a design studio' the new title of our group chat.
Mary laughed, showing Will the screen. He read it and snorted.
"Your group chat has a title?"
"Chloe made it. It used to be 'Hot Girls Having Existential Crises.' This is an upgrade."
He laughed, a real laugh, and Mary felt something loosen in her chest. She tucked her phone away and leaned back into him, the dumpling container empty between them, the studio warm and quiet around them.
"What happens now?" she asked, the question soft, tentative.
"Now?" He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Now I take you home. I hold you until you fall asleep. And in the morning, I make you breakfast, and I take you to work, and I pick you up when you're done. And if that's too much, if it's too fast, you tell me, and I'll slow down."
"Will." She turned in his arms to face him. "I don't want you to slow down. I want you to be exactly who you are. That's what I chose."
He looked at her, his blue eyes bright in the dim light, and she saw the fear, the hope, the desperate, aching need all tangled together. He cupped her face in his hands, gentle, almost reverent, and he kissed her, slow and deep, and she felt the promise in it, the weight of it.
"Okay," he said when he pulled back. "Then let's go home. Our home. For tonight, at least."
She took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. He grabbed her discarded blazer and wrapped it around her shoulders again, his hands lingering on the fabric. Then he looked around the studio, at the chaos they'd made, and he laughed, shaking his head.
"I'll clean this up tomorrow," he said. "For now, I just want to be with you."
She smiled, her hand in his, as they stepped out of the studio and into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing away the blueprints, the letter, the dumplings, all of it. Ahead of them, the elevator chimed, its doors sliding open, a soft golden light spilling into the corridor.
Mary looked at Will, at the way the light caught his hair, at the curve of his smile, and she felt it settle in her chest like a warm, steady anchor. She didn't know what the morning would bring, or the week, or the year. But she knew, with a certainty that surprised her, that she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
She stepped into the elevator with him, the doors closing behind them, and the city below glittered like a promise waiting to be kept.