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I gesture helplessly at the art supplies, toward the bedroom full of clothes, the drawer of lingerie I'd had someone else select because apparently I've lost all shame.
“This,” I finally manage. “I'm asking if you want this. I want you here. With me. More than just overnight bags and borrowed shirts.”
Her expression melts into something that makes my chest tight. “Bennett Mercer, are you asking me to move in with you?”
“Yes,” I say, relieved she put it into words. “Not all at once, if that's too fast. But more than we've been doing.”
“This is... a lot,” she says carefully. “We've only been together for a little more than a month.”
“I know.” I take her hands, feeling more exposed than in any business deal I've ever made. “But I also know what I want. I want to wake up with you. I want to come home to you. I want more than stolen time between meetings.”
Her eyes search mine. “What about work? The acquisition? My father?—”
“We'll figure it out,” I interrupt. “I'm not saying we announce it to the world. Just... be together. More.”
She bites her lip, and I can see her analyzing everything—the complications, the risks, the potential fallout. Always thinking, my Layla.
“OK,” she says finally.
“OK?”
“Yes, Bennett. I'll stay more often. Though I should warn you—I'm terrible at keeping my stuff in designated spaces.”
“I'm aware. I'll manage.”
“Will you?” She raises an eyebrow. “You, who alphabetizes your spice rack and color-codes your ties?”
“For you,” I say, brushing my thumb along her jaw, “I can adapt.”
Something shifts in her expression. “Those might be the most romantic words you've ever said.”
I should laugh it off. Pull back to safer ground. But standing here with her, surrounded by proof of how thoroughly she's invaded my perfectly ordered world, I can't bring myself to retreat.
“It's true. I find myself adapting constantly lately.”
“Like what?”
“Like clearing my schedule for mysterious deliveries. Like keeping almond milk in my fridge even though it's an abomination. Like actually sleeping through the night instead of working until three a.m.”
Her fingers spread across my chest. “Terrible sacrifices.”
“Worth it,” I murmur. “For you.”
The words reveal more than I intend, but I don't regret them.
“Though,” I add, “you might need to apologize to my housekeeper. She's the one who'll deal with your clothes migrating through the penthouse.”
Layla laughs. “Your housekeeper already likes me better than you. Last week she told me I bring life to this 'museum' you call home.”
She studies my face like she's seeing something new. “What's happening here, Bennett? Between us?”
It's the question we've both been avoiding. I could deflect, give her the non-answers that work in boardrooms.
Instead, I tell her the truth.
“I don't know. I only know I think about you constantly. That my day gets better the moment you walk into a room. That I've started measuring time by when I'll see you next.”
Her breath catches. “Those sound like some big feelings.”