Chapter 17: The Gesture

Harper woke Saturday morning in her Brooklyn apartment, the lumpy couch creaking under her restless shifting, her body still taut from last night's near-breaking point with Zane Carver. The memory of their argument—his hands pinning her to the penthouse window, his growled confession of trust and fear, her own defiance trembling on the edge of surrender—clung to her like a second skin. She'd walked away, demanded he show her his trust, but sleep had eluded her, her mind replaying his ragged I do trust you until dawn crept through the blinds.She dragged herself up, coffee bitter on her tongue as she stared at the red blouse and leather skirt crumpled on the floor—armor from a battle she hadn't won or lost. Today, 2 p.m., living room updates at the penthouse, and his promise of No games echoed in her head, a challenge she wasn't sure he could meet. She dressed with intent: a fitted black sweater, jeans that hugged her curves, boots that grounded her—a quieter defiance, but no less her. Her tablet held the specs—sectional reupholstery, a new rug, warm lighting—but her focus was on him, on what he'd do next.The subway ride to Manhattan was a blur, her pulse a steady thrum as she braced for the unknown. The penthouse elevator felt like a countdown, each floor ticking up her nerves, and when the doors slid open at 2:03 p.m., she froze, caught off guard by the scene waiting for her.The living room was transformed—not with her designs, not yet, but with something else. The cold slab dining table was gone, replaced by a rough-hewn wooden one—walnut, like she'd pitched weeks ago, its live edge gleaming under soft pendant lights. A vase of wildflowers sat at its center, a splash of color against the dark wood, and Zane stood beside it, barefoot in jeans and a gray tee, a tumbler of whiskey in hand, his eyes locked on her with a quiet intensity that stole her breath."What the hell is this?" she asked, dropping her bag on the island, her voice sharper than she meant, masking the flutter in her chest.He smirked, setting the glass down, crossing to her with that slow, deliberate stride that made her knees weak. "You said show you. This is me showing."She blinked, stepping toward the table, her fingers brushing the wood—smooth, warm, real. "The walnut table? You… did this?""Had it rushed," he said, stopping beside her, his arm brushing hers, a spark that jolted her. "Your pitch. Figured it was time to listen."Her throat tightened, the gesture hitting deeper than she'd expected—a piece of her vision brought to life, a crack in his control. "And the flowers?"His smirk softened, a rare vulnerability flickering in his gray eyes. "My mom used to grow those. Thought they'd… I don't know, soften the place. Like you do."Her chest ached, his words peeling back another layer, and she turned to face him, searching his face—hard lines softened, guard down, just for her. "Zane, this is—""Don't say sweet," he cut in, stepping closer, his voice rough but warm. "I'm not sweet. I'm trying, Harper. For you."She swallowed, the air thickening, his nearness pulling her in like gravity. "You didn't have to do this.""Yeah, I did." His hand lifted, brushing her jaw, his thumb tracing her cheek—a touch softer than his usual fire, but no less potent. "You asked for trust. This is me giving it."Her breath hitched, his honesty disarming her, and she leaned into his touch, her hands resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her palms. "It's a start," she said, quieter, her voice trembling with the weight of it. "A damn good one.""Good." His fingers slid to her neck, grazing the fading bruise he'd left, his eyes darkening—not with hunger, but something deeper. "Living room specs?"She nodded, stepping back to grab her tablet, needing the distance to breathe, but he followed, a shadow at her side as she spread the sketches on the new table. "Sectional in charcoal, new rug—wool, neutral—lighting here and here," she said, tapping the drawings, her voice steadying as she fell into work. "Warm it up without losing your edge."He leaned over the sketches, his arm brushing hers, his breath warm against her temple. "I like it. Matches this." He tapped the table, his hand lingering near hers, a silent bridge."Thought it might," she said, meeting his gaze, the flowers between them a quiet testament to this shift. They worked through the details—fabrics, dimensions, a rare compromise on a throw pillow—his input sharp, her vision sharper, a dance of give and take that felt new, fragile, real.By 4 p.m., the specs were locked, and he poured sake into small cups from last night's bottle, handing her one. "To trust," he said, raising his, his eyes holding hers."To trust," she echoed, clinking her cup to his, the clear liquid burning her throat, warming the knot in her chest. They sat at the table—her table now—sipping in silence, the city humming beyond the windows, the tension between them shifting, softening."You're still an asshole," she said, breaking the quiet, her lips twitching as she set her cup down."And you're still stubborn," he shot back, his smirk returning, but his hand slid to her knee under the table, a slow squeeze that sent heat up her spine. "Keeps us even."Her laugh was shaky, her body leaning into his touch despite her resolve. "Even's good," she murmured, her hand covering his, holding it there, the contact a lifeline.He shifted, turning to face her fully, his hand sliding up her thigh, stopping just shy of dangerous territory. "Harper—" His voice dropped, rough and low, his eyes searching hers, a question hanging unspoken."Don't," she whispered, her free hand pressing to his chest, holding him back even as her body screamed forward. "Not yet. This—" She gestured to the table, the flowers, them—"It's enough for now."His groan was pure frustration, but he nodded, his hand retreating to her knee, resting there, warm and steady. "You're killing me," he muttered, his forehead pressing to hers, his breath mingling with hers in a near-kiss that made her tremble."You'll live," she said, pulling back, her voice steadier than she felt, standing to grab her bag. "Tomorrow, 1 p.m. Kitchen tweaks. No flowers this time.""No promises," he called after her, his smirk returning as she headed for the elevator, his silhouette framed by the table—barefoot, eyes burning, a promise of more.The ride down was a slow exhale, her body still humming, his gesture sinking in—the table, the flowers, the trust he'd laid bare. Back in her apartment, she collapsed onto the couch, sake and his scent clinging to her, the night stretching long with the weight of what they'd built, and what still waited to ignite.