Chapter 37: The Last Box

Harper woke Sunday morning in the penthouse master suite, the soft gray light of a cloudy sky filtering through the navy curtains, her body nestled in silk sheets beside Zane Carver. The air carried a faint whiff of yesterday's rain and the lingering warmth of their rug-soaked chaos—his hands gripping her hips, the plush cream pile shifting as he thrust into her, her screams fading into the steady drum of water against glass. Her muscles felt loose now, a gentle ache from their Saturday surrender, but today was different—no urgency, no heat waiting to ignite, just the quiet hum of a weekend winding down, a chance to settle deeper into the life they'd built together.His arm rested across her waist, lighter than usual, his chest a steady wall against her back, his breath slow and even against her neck—a presence that anchored her in the stillness. She shifted, the silk sliding against her bare skin—cool, smooth, whispering against the fading bruises he'd left—and his hand tightened briefly, a reflex of possession even in sleep, before relaxing again. The clock glowed 8:47 a.m., a lazy hour for them, and she let herself linger, her eyes tracing the room—mirrors reflecting the rumpled sheets, the walnut nightstands she'd chosen, the cream rug at the bed's foot, still slightly askew from their tumble, a silent witness to their fire.He stirred, his lips brushing her shoulder—soft, absent, a sleepy gesture that sent a shiver down her spine, prickling her skin with a quiet warmth. "Morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, thick and low, rolling over her like a gentle tide as he cracked his gray eyes open, glinting with a softness that settled into contentment as he focused on her, his hair a wild tangle from restless dreams, strands catching the dim light."Morning," she replied, her voice husky, rolling to face him—her bare skin brushing his, warm and familiar, a comfort that sank deep into her chest, steadying her in the gray haze. His face was relaxed, stubble shadowing his jaw, and she reached up, tracing the line with her fingertips—rough, textured, a rasp that made her pulse flicker, a subtle spark in the calm. "Slept late again.""Good." His smirk flickered, faint but there, and he pulled her closer—chest to chest, her legs tangling with his under the silk, his hand sliding to her lower back—fingers splaying wide, possessive but gentle, pressing her against him with an ease that felt like home. "No rush—just us.""Us," she echoed, softer, her hand flattening against his chest—feeling his heartbeat thud, steady and strong, a rhythm she'd come to rely on—and she leaned in, resting her forehead against his, their breaths mingling in the quiet, the clouds a muted hum beyond the glass. "Last boxes today—Brooklyn's done.""Finally." His hand slid up her back—tracing her spine with a featherlight touch, up to her shoulders, down to her hips—a slow exploration that skimmed her skin, waking her senses without stoking the fire, a tether in the stillness. "Let's unpack—make it ours."She nodded, her laugh quiet and dry, shoving at his chest—playful, light—breaking his hold as she slid from the sheets, the silk falling away to bare her body—flushed, marked, hers to share. She grabbed a robe from the chair—soft gray cotton, his, too big but hers now—tying it loose as she padded to the living room, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, the cool floor a jolt against her warm skin. He followed, slower, tugging on dark sweats—leaving his chest bare, scratched and sculpted, a sight that made her breath catch despite the calm, a reminder of their heat banked but never gone.The living room welcomed them with its familiar expanse—walnut table gleaming under pendant lights, flowers drooping in their vase, the sectional a sprawl of cushions where Jess's visit had lingered last night. Three cardboard boxes sat by the wall—the last of Harper's Brooklyn life, taped shut since the move, a final tether to her old self waiting to be cut. She knelt beside one, peeling the tape with a sharp rip—dust puffing into the air, the scent of old paper and fabric rising as she opened it, revealing a jumble of keepsakes—photo albums, a chipped mug, a scarf knitted by her mother, threads fraying at the edges."Coffee first?" Zane asked, his voice low, crossing to the kitchen—the matte-black island gleaming, still faintly scarred from Thursday's chaos—as he filled the machine, the hiss of water loud in the quiet, the rich aroma curling into the air, grounding her in the moment."Yeah," she replied, pulling the mug from the box—white ceramic, a crack snaking up the side, a relic of late-night study sessions—and holding it up, her smirk teasing. "This still works.""Barely." He grinned, pouring two cups—black for him, cream for her—his bare feet silent as he crossed back, handing her one, his fingers brushing hers—a spark that flickered, a quiet warmth in the routine. He sank beside her on the hardwood, his knee nudging hers, a soft clink of mugs as they sipped, the jazz humming low when he flicked the remote, a backdrop to their task.They unpacked—slowly, deliberately—her hands pulling items from the boxes, his sorting them into piles—keep, toss, maybe. The photo album came first—black leather, edges worn, pages crinkling as she flipped it open—snapshots of her childhood spilling out—her gap-toothed grin at six, a beach trip at ten, her mother's smile frozen in time, a warmth Harper hadn't felt in years. She paused, her finger tracing the faded ink of a caption—Harper, July '98—her throat tightening, a memory stirring she hadn't touched since the move."Mom?" Zane asked, his voice low, leaning closer—his shoulder brushing hers, his gaze flicking to the photo, a quiet curiosity in his tilt of head."Yeah." Her voice softened, her hand trembling slightly as she turned the page—another shot, her mother laughing, wind tugging her hair, a moment Harper clung to through loss. "Died when I was twelve—cancer. This was before."His hand settled on her knee—steady, warm—his thumb brushing her jeans in idle strokes, a silent anchor as she spoke, his eyes steady, listening. "She'd like you," he said, his voice rough, sure. "Tough—messy. Like her kid."Her chest ached, his words hitting deep—truth wrapped in simplicity—and she leaned into him, her shoulder pressing his, feeling his warmth seep through her robe. "Maybe," she murmured, closing the album—setting it aside, her hand sliding to his—lacing their fingers, feeling the calluses on his palms, a tether in the moment.They kept going—his hands pulling a stack of old sketchbooks from the next box, her drawings spilling out—cityscapes, faces, a self-portrait from college, sharper than she was now. He studied one—a rough sketch of Brooklyn Bridge, ink smudged from careless hands—his smirk softening, a reverence in how he held it, careful not to bend the pages further. "Early you," he said, his voice low, tracing the lines with his fingertip. "Hungry—wild.""Still me," she replied, her laugh dry, taking it back—setting it on the shelf beside his hardcovers, her shoulder brushing his arm—a nudge that settled her, a comfort in his seeing her, all of her. "Your turn—something from you."He smirked, rising to the office—returning with a small wooden box, paint chipped at the edges, a relic of his past. He opened it—spilling out a handful of trinkets—a faded concert ticket, a key from his first car, a single silver coin, tarnished but heavy. "Teenage me," he said, handing her the ticket—Springsteen, '05, creased from years in his pocket. "Before Katie—before I learned to guard shit."Her throat tightened, his vulnerability a mirror to hers, and she studied it—his younger self etched in the memory, a boy who'd loved hard, lost harder. "Still you," she echoed, setting it down—her hand resting on his arm, feeling the muscle tense, then relax. "Just softer—sweeter.""Asshole," he muttered, but his laugh was warm—rough, real—and he pulled her closer—chest to chest, his arms wrapping around her, her robe parting slightly—baring more skin as she leaned into him, his heartbeat a steady thud under her ear. "Guess we grew up.""Guess so." She tilted her head—meeting his gaze, his eyes soft, steady—a depth that held her, a promise unspoken—and they stood, the last box unpacked—scarf on the couch, mug on the counter, albums on the shelf—their pasts blending into the space, a quiet hum beneath their present."Terrace?" he suggested, his voice low—his hand sliding to her lower back, guiding her out—the concrete expanse cool under her bare feet, clouds heavy overhead, a faint mist clinging to the air. They sank onto the lounge chairs—side by side, her robe hitching up her thighs, his sweats riding low—a casual intimacy in how they fit together, shoulders brushing, hands close but not clasped.The air was damp, a breeze tugging at her hair—and she shivered, pulling the robe tighter—his eyes catching the movement, his smirk flickering, but he didn't push—just watched, patient, present. "Cold?" he asked, his voice rough—reaching for a blanket from the chair's edge—soft wool, gray—draping it over her legs with a care that made her chest ache."Better," she said, softer—pulling it higher, her hand brushing his as she adjusted it—a spark that lingered, a warmth that wasn't just the wool. "You?""Fine." His hand rested on her knee—over the blanket, a steady weight that grounded her—his thumb tracing idle circles—not teasing, not now, just there—a quiet claim in the calm. "Love this—with you."Her breath hitched—his words simple but heavy—and she turned—meeting his gaze, his face open, unguarded—a man who'd fought for her, who'd let her in past every wall. "Me too," she whispered—her voice trembling, her hand sliding to his—lacing their fingers, feeling the strength in his grip—a tether in the stillness.They sat—the city sprawling below, clouds stretching above—and she leaned into him—her head on his shoulder, his arm wrapping around her—pulling her closer, the blanket slipping slightly as their warmth mingled. "Last box done," she said—her voice low, her fingers tightening on his. "Feels… final.""Good final," he murmured—his hand sliding to her jaw, tilting her face to his—his thumb brushing her lip, tracing its curve with a tenderness that made her breath catch. "You're here—ours now. No going back."Her chest tightened—his words sinking in, a truth that stripped her bare—and she nodded—her laugh shaky, her hand resting on his chest—feeling his heartbeat quicken—a rhythm she'd fight for, live for. "Ours," she whispered—her voice raw, her thumb brushing his cheek—a mirror to his touch, a seal on their quiet.They stayed there—tangled on the terrace—the city a muted hum beyond the glass, the penthouse theirs in every creak and shadow—her head on his chest, his arm around her, the rain a distant promise overhead, jazz fading into silence from the living room. "Love you," he said—his voice rough, his hand sliding down her back—tracing her spine, a slow exploration that wasn't about heat but presence—a promise held in check."Love you too," she replied—her voice soft, her hand resting on his chest—feeling his heartbeat steady—a rhythm that was hers now, theirs. "Even when you're smug."He laughed—low, warm—a sound that vibrated through her—and they sank deeper into the chairs—the weekend stretching before them, their bond a steady flame—banked but burning.Tomorrow, they'd face the week—work, life, the next challenge—but today, on their terrace, with his hand steady on her skin, she didn't care. The last box was unpacked, their pasts woven into their present, and it was everything she'd feared and craved.