Chapter 19: You Did What at 6 A.M.?

Sunday — 6:08 A.M.

The doorbell rang.

Twice.

Katherine groaned from the depths of her duvet cocoon. She didn’t know what time it was, only that it was far too early for anything that didn’t involve croissants and no responsibilities.

But the ringing continued.

Then a knock-knock.

Then… silence.

She threw back the covers like a betrayed lover and stomped barefoot to the front door.

“If this is someone trying to convert me to a new religion, I swear —”

She yanked open the door.

Empty hallway.

Except.

A large cream box sat quietly on the floor. Velvet ribbon. Handwritten tag.

Her name.

And somehow, the air around it felt… charged.

Like he was still there.

---

6:15 A.M.

The box lay open on her kitchen table. Flowers spilled out like a fever dream.

Whites. Pinks. Rich blood-red blossoms. The scent wrapped around her like silk sheets — expensive, intimate, personal.

Nestled in the center: a card. Heavy. Elegant. With his handwriting.

"I can’t unsee the way you looked at me.

So now you get to see what I look like when I miss you back.

— S."

Katherine blinked.

Then again.

Then she let out a sound that could only be described as a mix between a gasp, a laugh, and a soft, chaotic scream into her kitchen towel.

“Oh.

Oh no.

We are not doing this today, Katherine Brown.”

Except… her heart was already racing. Not just because of the memory of his body, soap-slicked and utterly, devastatingly male — but because of the way he had looked back at her.

He hadn't shouted.

Hadn’t covered himself.

Hadn’t shut the door.

He had stared.

Bold. Silent.

As if memorizing her reaction.

---

She was still in her oversized "NOPE" t-shirt and underwear. Sitting on the floor. Surrounded by flowers like a defeated Disney princess after a scandal.

Her phone buzzed.

Sebastian: Have I overstepped?

Katherine: Yes. But only by about 300 roses.

Sebastian: I’ll send lilies next time.

Katherine: You’re not helping.

Sebastian: I wasn't trying to.

---

7:33 A.M.

She stared at the card again.

“Now you get to see what I look like when I miss you back.”

Katherine was not okay.

This man… This man.

---

9:00 A.M.

She had taken a bath. Tried to forget. Dressed. Failed to forget. Put on lipstick. Failed harder.

Now she stood outside his door, holding the card. The flowers had stayed home — she didn’t trust herself around them.

She knocked.

No answer.

Then: the sound of a lock turning.

And there he was. Shirtless again. But now in loose gray joggers and wet hair slicked back. Holding coffee.

“I expected you sooner,” he said quietly.

“You expected me at six in the morning?”

“I expected you to be Katherine Brown.”

That earned a glare. But a soft one.

“I came to yell at you,” she said, stepping inside.

“You’re welcome.”

“Not for the flowers. For the heart attack. Who sends that after last night?”

Sebastian placed his mug down, calmly walked over.

“Someone who saw the way your eyes lingered.”

“I did not —”

“You stared.”

“I was shocked!”

“You bit your lip.”

“I — That — I was adjusting my mouth!”

He leaned down. Just a breath away.

“And now?” he murmured. “Still adjusting?”

Her breath caught.

---

They stood like that. Close. Too close.

Then she burst.

“You know what, you’re impossible. You stand there, all… bare-chested and serious and sending poetic flower bombs and dripping water memories and — who even writes like that?”

He blinked.

“I do.”

“Yes, well. That’s illegal. You should come with a warning label. May cause heart failure in chaotic women.”

He smiled. That slow, rare smile. The one she was starting to crave like air.

“I like you in the morning,” he said.

“You’ve never seen me in the morning.”

“I’ve imagined.”

She groaned.

“Stop. Stop being this.”

“This?”

“Everything. You’re everything, and I can’t breathe when you're like this.”

Silence.

Then he reached out, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Then let me help you breathe, Katherine.”

And with that — he leaned in.

---

“You still haven’t yelled at me properly,” he said.

“Give me a moment. I’m building up to it.”

“You barged into my home at six a.m. and forgot your fury somewhere between the orchids and my abs.”

She turned sharply, eyes narrowing.

“I did not forget your abs — I mean, my fury! I did not forget my fury!”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You're still doing it,” she murmured, stepping back instinctively.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you already own the outcome.”

He didn’t reply. Just kept looking.

“Sebastian…”

“Yes?”

“This is a bad idea.”

“Then tell me to stop.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

Opened again.

“You almost kissed me yesterday. You sent me flowers. You made me feel something I don’t know how to file in my brain. You —”

Her words stopped.

Because he took the mug from her hand.

Placed it gently on the table nearby.

And then he kissed her.

But not the hesitant, testing kind.

No — this kiss was hot. Messy. Real.

His hands were in her hair, her fingers on his shoulders, gripping tight. Their mouths moved with weeks of held-back tension, of elevator glances and stolen sighs and everything unsaid in conference rooms.

She gasped into him. He deepened the kiss.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, she stared at him like she’d just touched fire and liked it too much.

“You... you can’t just do that,” she whispered.

“Then stop me.”

“I don’t want to.”

He brushed his lips over her jaw, trailing down to the corner of her mouth again.

“Good.”

She groaned and shoved him back playfully, but he caught her wrist, twirled her, and pulled her against him again, her back to his chest now. His lips grazed the edge of her ear.

“You're in my apartment, Katherine Brown. Wearing this mismatched pajama. Holding my card. And you think I’m going to play by your rules?”

She tilted her head back on his shoulder.

“Oh, Mr. Mason, I didn’t know you played at all.”

He chuckled darkly.

“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t play.

I conquer.”

And then — just like that — she turned in his arms and kissed him again. Because chaos was all she’d ever known.

And now… it had a name.

Sebastian.

---

Katherine stood perfectly still, lips tingling, chest rising and falling like a kite caught in sudden wind.

Sebastian didn’t move either. His thumb still lingered at her waist.

Their heads nearly touched. His breath was warm on her cheek.

She swallowed. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I know,” he murmured. “That’s why I’m going to do it again.”

He leaned in — slower this time. Intentional. Almost reverent.

And then —

BRRRRRRZZZZZZZT.

The sharp buzz of his phone sliced through the air like a blade.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He didn’t flinch. But she felt his muscles shift beneath her touch.

Katherine stepped back. Just slightly. Enough to break the spell.

Enough to remind them they were still people. Not magnets.

Sebastian exhaled through his nose. Glanced at the screen on the coffee table. His jaw clenched.

“…It’s her.”

“Her who?” Katherine blinked.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for the phone, silenced it, and set it back down face down.

As if the call itself had left a stain on his hand.

“Madison,” he said finally. “My ex-wife.”

Ah. Of course. Chaos giveth and chaos taketh.

Katherine folded her arms, trying not to feel the sting of being yanked back into reality.

The air between them cooled. Not gone — just… pausing.

“She usually doesn’t call this late,” he added.

“I see.”

“I didn’t mean for —”

“Don’t apologize,” she interrupted. “Please. Not unless you regret it.”

He looked at her like she’d just challenged gravity.

“I don’t,” he said simply.

A silence followed. Dense. Laced with tension neither of them wanted to name.

Katherine cleared her throat, moving toward the door. “I should probably… yeah.”

He stepped forward, fast — almost on instinct. “Katherine —”

She turned, already at the threshold. “I’m not running, Mr. Mason. I just need a second to… breathe. Before I set something else on fire.”

He smiled. Just a twitch.

“You do that a lot.”

She winked, already stepping out. “You're lucky I didn’t burn your apartment down.”

---

10:52 PM.

Back in her own apartment — six floors beyond but emotionally far lower — Katherine stared at the trench coat still slung on the back of her chair.

The one that had started all of this.

She ran a hand through her hair. Then grabbed a glass. Poured herself some wine.

And muttered into the silence:

“Still not sorry.”

---