Chapter 26 — Lines Drawn in Quiet Ink
The next morning arrived with rain.
Not the violent kind—just a steady, gray drizzle that softened the city and blurred the edges of everything. Kiera stood by the kitchen window, mug warming her hands, watching drops slide down the glass like slow-moving thoughts.
She slept.
Really slept.
That alone felt like a small miracle.
Behind her, footsteps approached. Familiar now. Safe.
"Morning," Kade said.
She turned. He was dressed casually—dark jeans, a sweater, no armor. Just a man at home.
"Morning," she replied. "Leo still asleep?"
"Out cold," he said. "I think the park wore him out."
They shared a small smile.
Silence followed—but not the awkward kind. The kind that let you breathe.
"I was thinking," Kade began, leaning against the counter. "About boundaries."
Her shoulders tensed instinctively.
He noticed immediately. "Not bad ones," he said quickly. "Clear ones. So neither of us has to guess."
She nodded slowly. "Okay."
"I don't want to assume intimacy just because there's… something between us," he continued. "And I don't want you to feel like your job, or your living situation, puts you in a position where saying no feels unsafe."
That hit deeper than he probably realized.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"So," he said, choosing his words carefully, "I'd like to formally separate your role here from whatever this is becoming."
She frowned slightly. "How?"
"You'll still be Leo's nanny—if you want to be," he said. "But I want to revise your contract. Better pay. Fixed hours. Days off you actually take. And—" He paused. "If at any point this becomes uncomfortable, you walk away. No consequences."
Emotion swelled in her chest.
"You're giving me an exit," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "Because staying should be a choice. Not a necessity."
She took a shaky breath. "I've never had that before."
"I know," he said softly.
Rain tapped against the windows as the weight of his words settled.
"And us?" she asked.
He met her gaze. "Us is separate. Slow. Optional. Something we check in on—not something we rush into because it feels good."
She smiled faintly. "It does feel good."
He chuckled under his breath. "Yeah. That's the dangerous part."
They both laughed—quietly, shared.
Later that afternoon, Kiera went out alone for the first time in days. Just a short walk. Just a bookstore café a few blocks away. She kept her phone in her pocket, fingers brushing it occasionally, grounding herself.
She didn't panic.
She didn't turn back.
She ordered tea. Sat by the window. Read three pages of a book without dissociating.
Progress.
When she returned, Kade was on a call in his office, voice low and controlled. She didn't linger—just passed quietly toward Leo's room.
But she heard her name.
"…yes, I'm aware," Kade was saying. "No, that won't be happening. Kiera is not part of this negotiation."
She froze.
Negotiation?
"…because she's not an asset," he continued, voice sharp now. "And if you bring her up again, this conversation is over."
Kiera stepped away before she could hear more, heart pounding—not with fear, but with something else.
Respect.
That evening, Leo insisted on a movie night. They sprawled across the couch—Leo in the middle, popcorn everywhere, animated characters flashing across the screen.
At some point, Leo fell asleep against Kade's side.
Kiera watched Kade carefully lift the boy, carry him to bed, tuck him in with reverence that bordered on awe.
When he returned, the room felt quieter.
"He's growing fast," Kade said, sitting beside her again.
"You're doing a good job," she said.
He looked at her. "So are you."
The words warmed her more than the blanket over her legs.
"Kade," she said after a moment, heart steady but brave, "can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"What happens when this gets complicated?" she asked. "When people talk. When the press notices. When your world collides with… me."
He didn't answer immediately.
Then: "Then I choose what matters."
"That's not an answer," she said gently.
He smiled slightly. "It's the only honest one I have right now."
She accepted that.
For now.
As night settled in, they stood on opposite sides of the living room, reluctant to part.
"I'm glad you're here," he said finally.
She met his eyes. "I am too."
They didn't touch.
They didn't promise.
But something had been written between them that day—quiet lines of trust and choice and mutual respect.
Not inked in passion.
But in intention.
And sometimes, those lines were the hardest—and strongest—ones to draw.