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But I'd imposed the honesty rule.

Would be a hypocrite to break it now.

"About how far I'm willing to go for this," I admitted.

"For you."

Something flashed in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or wariness.

"And how far is that, exactly?"

I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, studying the complex woman before me. The woman who had cracked foundations I'd thought impenetrable. Who had made me question priorities I'd thought immutable.

"Further than I've gone for anyone in a very long time," I said, echoing my earlier words. "Perhaps further than is wise."

She held my gaze, an unspoken question in her eyes. After a moment, she asked softly, "Was it like this with Miles's mother?"

The question caught me off guard. Not because it was inappropriate—we'd long since crossed the line of appropriate conversation—but because it touched on a past I rarely discussed. A youthful mistake that had shaped the course of my life.

"No," I said finally.

"Nothing like this. Catherine was... a college mistake. A single night with a broken condom. We barely knew each other."

Understanding dawned in her eyes. "That explains a lot about your relationship with Miles."

"I tried to do right by them both," I said, finding myself wanting her to understand. "Financially, legally. But I was young and focused on building my company. Catherine wanted nothing to do with me and decided she wanted to raise Miles alone. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I even knew I had a son. By the time Miles was old enough to form a relationship with, he'd already decided I was the villain in his story. We are only now learning to form a relationship as father and son.”

"And you never corrected that impression?"

I shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation yet feeling compelled to continue.

"I was never good at being what he needed …at being... warm. I provided opportunities, education, and connections. But never what he actually wanted."

"Which was?"

"A father who put him first," I said simply. "Something I didn't know how to be."

Her hand came up to cup my cheek, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it nearly undid me. "Thank you for telling me."

I covered her hand with mine, turning to press a kiss to her palm. "Honesty, remember? Rule two."

She nodded, something shifting in her expression—resolution, perhaps, or acceptance. "Then I should be honest too. This isn't just physical for me anymore, Lucas. If it ever was."

The admission hung between us, weighted with all its implications.

This wasn't moving into territory neither of us had mapped, neither of us had prepared for.

I should have been alarmed. Should have stepped back, established firmer boundaries, protected us both from the inevitable complications.

Instead, I kissed her again—gently this time, with none of the earlier desperation but with a tenderness that surprised even me.

"Stay," I said against her lips. "Not just for tonight."

It wasn't a question, wasn't quite a command. Something in between—an invitation, a request, a hope I hadn't known I harbored until the words escaped.

Her answer would determine everything that followed. Would set the course for whatever this was becoming.

And for the first time in decades, I found myself genuinely uncertain of the outcome. Unsure, and yet strangely exhilarated by the possibility in that uncertainty.