**Chapter 10: Ours**

The key turns in the lock at 11:47 p.m. I know it by the scrape of metal on brass, the heavy sigh of the deadbolt giving way, the way the hallway light catches the dust motes dancing above the entryway floor. I don’t look up right away. My brush is mid-stroke, laying down a wash of burnt sienna over the canvas that lives on the far wall of the sunroom. It’s a landscape, or at least it wants to be. Right now it’s just texture, shadow, the ghost of something that might become a coastline or a cliff edge. I let it breathe. I let him breathe.

Shoes come off. One, then the other. The deliberate pause. The exhale. Then his voice, low and frayed at the edges, “I’m home.”

“I know,” I say, finally setting the brush down. I wipe my hands on the rag tucked into my jeans, turn, and watch him cross the threshold.

Sebastian doesn’t rush. He never does. Even after twelve hours in a courtroom, after dismantling a prosecutor’s case or swallowing a client’s confession whole, he moves like a man who’s already calculated the next three moves. His coat is draped over one arm, his suit jacket gone, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to the forearms. There’s a smear of something dark on his left cuff—ink, maybe, or dried blood from a paper cut he didn’t bother to mention. His eyes, that impossible slate-gray, find me immediately. Always me.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to. The way his jaw unclenches, the way his shoulders drop a fraction, that’s his version of surrender. And it’s enough.

He crosses the room in three strides. I don’t move. I let him take what he wants. His hands are on my waist, hot through the thin cotton of my shirt, thumbs pressing into the dip of my hips. He leans down, nose brushing my temple, and inhales like he’s drowning and I’m the only air left in the room. I feel it in my chest. I’ve felt it since the first time he walked into my studio and told me, cold as a scalpel, that I was painting like I were trying to outrun something. I told him I was. He told me he’d help me run.

He never asked me to stay. I never asked him to leave. We just did.

“Long day?” I ask, fingers tracing the line of his collarbone, feeling the pulse there, steady but tired.

“Suffocating,” he says, voice rough. “Client lied through his teeth. Judge bought it. Defense won. Victim’s family hates me. I don’t care.”

I know he cares. I just know he doesn’t let it show. Sebastian doesn’t deal in feelings. He deals in facts, in loopholes, in the brutal architecture of guilt and innocence. He defends men who hurt women, who break laws, who leave bodies in their wake. He does it because it’s his craft, because he’s brilliant at it, because he likes the way the world bends when he pushes on the right pressure point. I’ve never judged him for it. How could I? I paint the same way. I take chaos and make it something you can stare at without looking away.

“Dinner’s in the fridge,” I say, pressing my forehead to his chest. “Or I can make you something. You look like you’d rather chew on glass.”

He huffs, a sound so close to a laugh it startles me. “Make me coffee. Black. Two sugars. And strip.”

Not a request. A fact. Like stating the weather. But I know the weight behind it. He’s spent the day in a room full of people pretending, arguing, manipulating. He’s worn the mask. Now he wants to come home to the only place where the mask is unnecessary. Now he wants me.

I step back, unbutton my shirt, let it fall. His eyes track the movement, dark and hungry, but his hands stay on my waist. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes with me. He’s learned that. Learned that I don’t like to be handled like I’m something to be won. I’m already his. He just doesn’t say it out loud. We don’t do promises. We do presence.

“Shower first,” I tell him, stepping out of my jeans, kicking them aside. “You reek of courtroom and cheap whiskey.”

“I’ll shower when I’ve got you,” he says, voice dropping an octave. “Skin to skin. Now.”

I should argue. I should make him wait. But I’ve learned his tells. The tightness around his eyes, the way his thumb rubs small circles into my hip bone, the slight tremor in his left hand when he’s carrying too much. He’s carrying it. I’ll let him put it down.

I take his hand. Lead him down the hall. The bedroom is cool, lit only by the streetlamp outside casting long, geometric shadows across the hardwood. I push him onto the edge of the bed. He doesn’t resist. Just watches me as I step out of my underwear, let them pool at my ankles, kick them away. I’m naked. He’s still in his trousers. I know he’ll wait. I also know he won’t have to wait long.

“Look at me,” he says.

I do. His gaze is heavy, possessive, but not demanding. There’s a difference. He owns me in the way a man owns the truth—he doesn’t need to shout it. It’s just there, undeniable.

He stands. Slowly. Unbuttons his shirt. Lets it fall. I don’t look away. I’ve seen him a hundred times like this. Pale skin, lean muscle, the scar on his ribs from a long-ago fall, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s still fighting the day. He unbuttons his trousers. Steps out of them. Drops his boxers. And there he is. Hard. Aching. Ready.

“Kneel,” he says.

I do. On the floor between his legs. He grips my hair, not hard, just enough to tilt my head back. His cock is thick, veined, leaking pre-cum onto his stomach. I lean in. Taste him before I take him in. Salt. Coffee. Him. He curses, fingers tightening in my hair, but he doesn’t pull. He lets me set the pace. That’s his trust. That’s his surrender.

I take him deep. He groans, hips jerking forward instinctively. I hold his thigh, steady him. My mouth moves in slow, deliberate strokes. He’s tense, wound tight, but I’m not here to rush him. I’m here to peel him open. To take the weight he’s been carrying and hold it for him. My tongue works the underside, circles the head, sucks gently. He’s breathing harder now. Fingers tangled in my hair, not pulling, just anchoring.

“Vera,” he says, voice ragged. “Fuck.”

I hum around him. Feel the vibration against his skin. His hips buck. I take him deeper. He’s close. I can feel it. The way his thighs tremble. The way his breath hitches. But I don’t let him come yet. I pull off, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and look up at him.

“Look at me,” he repeats.

I do. His eyes are dark, blown wide, pupils swallowing the gray. There’s vulnerability there. Raw. Unfiltered. He doesn’t show it to anyone else. Not the judges. Not the juries. Not the guilty men he defends with cold, surgical precision. But here. With me. He lets it bleed through.

I stand. Step into his space. Press my chest to his. Feel his heart hammering against my sternum. He wraps his arms around me, holds me like I’m something fragile. I’m not. But he treats me like I am. And maybe I am, in this moment. In his hands. In his silence.

He lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me to the bed, lays me down, follows me down. His mouth finds mine. Hard. Desperate. I kiss him back, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, tasting the exhaustion and the hunger and the something deeper that neither of us names. He breaks the kiss, trails his mouth down my neck, over my collarbone, my chest. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes. He maps me. Like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s making sure he never forgets.

When he reaches my breasts, he takes my nipple in his mouth, sucks hard. I arch, gasp. He grins against my skin. Cruel. Beautiful. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He always does. He flicks his tongue, then bites, just enough to make me shiver. I reach down, wrap my hand around his cock, stroke him slowly. He hisses, hips bucking. I match his rhythm. Up. Down. Twist. He’s close again. I can tell. The way his jaw clenches. The way his fingers dig into my thighs.

“Let me,” I say.

He doesn’t argue. Just nods. I roll us over, pin his wrists to the mattress. He watches me. Doesn’t resist. I take him in my mouth again. Faster this time. Harder. He groans, back arching off the bed. I use one hand to stroke the base, the other to massage his balls. He’s twitching. Cursing. I don’t let up. I work him until he’s trembling, until his breath is coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Vera,” he warns. “I’m gonna—”

“Come,” I say. “For me.”

He does. Hard. Screaming my name into my shoulder, hips jerking against my mouth, cock pulsing in my throat. I take it all. Swallow. Don’t pull away until he’s spent. Until he’s shaking. Until the last tremor fades.

I crawl up his body. Kiss him. Soft now. Tender. He wraps his arms around me, holds me like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t need to. The way he breathes against my neck says it all.

We stay like that for a long time. Skin to skin. Heartbeats syncing. The city outside is quiet. Inside, it’s just us. Just the weight of each other. Just the quiet understanding that this is ours. No rings. No promises. Just presence. Just truth.

Later, when he’s cleaned up, when we’re lying in the dark, he traces the line of my spine, fingers light, deliberate. “You painted today,” he says. Not a question. A fact.

“I did.”

“What’s it look like?”

I shrug. “I don’t know yet. Maybe a cliff. Maybe a shore. Maybe just the space between things.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “It’s beautiful.”

I know he means the painting. I also know he means me.

He doesn’t ask about my day. I don’t ask about his. We’ve learned the boundaries. We’ve learned what we need. He defends men who don’t deserve to walk free. I paint the world the way it actually is—flawed, brutal, beautiful. We don’t try to fix each other. We just exist in the same space. Breathe the same air. Come home to each other.

Morning comes. Sunlight cuts through the blinds. I’m already awake. I watch him sleep. The sharp lines of his face softened. The way his chest rises and falls. The way his hand rests on my hip, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t either.

I slip out of bed. Pad to the kitchen. Make coffee. Two sugars. Black. Like he likes it. Like I’ve memorized him. Like I’ve always known how to take the pieces he refuses to put together and make them fit.

He finds me in the sunroom, coffee in hand, canvas half-finished. He doesn’t speak. Just steps behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, rests his chin on my shoulder. We watch the light change. Watch the paint dry. Watch the day begin.

“Case tomorrow,” he says finally. “High profile. Corporate fraud. Three counts of embezzlement. Client’s guilty. Client’s going to walk.”

I nod. “You know it.”

“I know it.”

“You’ll make him walk.”

“I will.”

“They’ll hate you.”

“They always do.”

I turn in his arms. Look up at him. “You don’t care.”

He doesn’t look away. “I don’t.”

I believe him. I’ve always believed him. He’s not cruel. He’s not kind. He’s just… precise. He deals in what is, not what should be. And I deal in the same. We