June 13, 2020 · 7:12 AM
Langford Towers — Manhattan.
—
Steam slides off him in long, deliberate sheets as Sebastian stands under the shower and counts his own reflection. He is broad across the shoulders, ribbed muscle tracing the arc of his chest, the kind of body that reads practiced discipline rather than punishment. His skin has that warm, lived tone that looks good under neon and boardroom light alike. His face is a definite face, high cheekbones softened by a full, tidy beard and a mouth that tightens around irony. His hair is longer on top, waves he can coerce into order, shaved close at one temple so the longer curls read as a choice. He lets the stream rinse the night off, then steps into the shower dryer that hums like an obliging machine. Heat puffs around him and the dryer pats his shirtless back into readiness.
He towels off, dries the hair with the same economy he uses to file contracts, and moves down the short hallway. Two walk in closets sit opposite each other like small, neat adversaries. He passes them on autopilot, the corners of his mouth lifting at nothing in particular. One sentence will do for the bedroom, he thinks, so he takes it all in at once: low light, a king bed rimmed with white linen, art in sober frames, and a chair with a green dress draped over it like a habitual sin.
She is there exactly where she always is, turned away from him, bare back and long black hair fanned across the pillow. The dress on the chair is the same dress he remembers stepping out of the night before. His suit from last night hangs over a footstool, cuff slashed and shirt collar soft with the same human evidence as his handshake. He quirks his lips, a small calculation about waking her. He decides against it.
On the floor a heel lurks in the usual bad spot. His toe finds it with an apologetic curse. "Fuck," he says, low and immediate, the word sharp but contained. He holds back the snap he wants, because mornings are negotiations and nobody wins a fight over shoes. He moves the heel to a safer part of the room, tucks it under the chair, and breathes out like a man closing a bracket.
A smaller arched opening reveals an array of boxers, shelves stacked and neat, colors and patterns arranged with a kind of slow obsession. There are at least two hundred pairs, folded like small flags. Above them, trays hold the sort of jewels a man of his stature keeps in neat parcels, things that glint when he tilts his head the right way. He selects a pair—clean, dark, unfussy. A digital watch sits on its own cushion. He drops the watch in a corner, more habit than necessity, and slides the boxers on without vanity.
He re-traces his steps to the hallway closets and opens the left one with the casual certainty of a man who keeps things ordered by day and mood. The suit waits. He dresses with the slow, unhurried efficiency of someone who has rehearsed arrival. Shirt, crisp and white, buttons closed with fingers that know the choreography. The tie goes up with a knot he tightens with a single practiced tug. The jacket slips on as if it was always meant to sit there, shoulders exactly in their place. He has the time to toast himself in the mirror and chooses not to.
The phone buzzes against the marble like an impatient guest. He lifts it, smooths his voice into the version that negotiates both hostile takeovers and hangovers, and says, "Sebastian."
"Sebastian," Grace Keller says, half scold, half laugh. "We picked a candidate for the internship and I sent the interview invite. Also you need an assistant, like, yesterday. Ansel can cover reception for now."
He lets out a short, amused breath. "Everything's under control, Grace. I've got it."
There's a soft tut that reads exactly like a mother who's watched this exact movie before. "Everything's under control does not mean you should be teaching interns by osmosis," she says. "And please tell me you're not planning to recruit from your dating roster again."
He's grinning now. "I am not sleeping with applicants. Active or passive."
"Sebastian," she says, the name wrapped in exasperation and real concern, "you can't sleep with this one."
He actually snorts. "I didn't sleep with the last one."
"Right," she replies, deadpan. "She left because you wouldn't sleep with her."
He's quiet for a beat because he knows she doesn't buy it. "Okay," she says finally. "We'll talk when you're in the office. And don't try to charm your way out of hiring someone competent."
"Fine," he says. "See you at the office."
They hang up. He pockets the phone and glances out the window. A window cleaner is perched outside, platform suspended, and he follows the man's gaze. The cleaner is looking at the woman on the bed, brief curiosity in his posture. He startles when Sebastian's eyes meet his and he shuffles the platform higher like he has been caught in some personal indiscretion. Sebastian raises an eyebrow and rolls his eyes. The cleaner resumes his work as if the world is not a stage.
He finishes dressing and moves down another corridor that opens into a smaller bathroom, then a lounge that smells faintly of coffee and leather, and an entertainment room that folds into itself like a private screening room. The doors are heavy and soft at once, the kind of place where films are watched and judgments reserved.
The path opens to the living area, an open concept that folds living, dining and kitchen into one long room. The balcony doors are open as usual because he keeps air moving up here, who is going to break in from the seventy eighth penthouse floor when a railing stands like a polite challenge. The terrace is an oasis that reads like a staged backyard, canopied lounging beds, a grill set to look purposefully unused, a small plunge that is more for show than exercise. Guardrails are high and uncompromising, the architecture of safety.
He moves to the kitchen and locks eyes with the minibar. He picks the thirty year old whiskey because choices like this are part of his morning grammar. He pours a glass and brings it to his lips. The phone lights up again with Jonathan. He watches the name and decides not to answer. "Fucking universe," he mutters and dumps the whiskey back into the bottle. The ritual is interrupted. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, flattens it with one hard swallow, and tucks the cap back on.
Kellie Cardin walks in then, not showered but not careless. She is already easing into the green dress, hair still damp at the roots and arranged in a style that holds the night without reenacting it. Afro Asian features, sharp and practiced, hair perfectly coiffed. He had helped her sweat out the curls last night in a moment neither one of them will call tender. She moves like someone used to his spaces, like a regular who knows exits and the landlord's playlist.
They trade no tenderness and no disdain. It is economy between them. "You leaving?" he asks.
"Ride's here," she says, and slides both arms into the dress. She does not look to him for permission. She does not need it.
"Don't forget your shoes," he says, remembering the heel he had tucked away.
She grabs them with practiced fingers, slides into them without ceremony and gives him a look that is a private punctuation. "I'll text you the bill for the cleaner," she says, light enough to be a joke.
"You always do," he answers, and the words land like routine rather than feeling.
She moves toward the hallway and to the elevator and tucks a loose curl with one hand. At the doorway she pauses. "See you tonight?" she asks.
"Maybe," he says. He watches her go, the apartment shifting its breath back into polite order.
He calls Grover from the elevator foyer, keys warm in his palm. "Take the morning, Grover. I'll drive myself," he says. "Bring the Chrysler around though."
Grover hesitates the way loyal men do, voice folding into concern. "You sure, sir? You want me to—"
"Yeah," Sebastian cuts in, already sliding the card into the elevator reader. "Just take the morning. Get the family breakfast. I'll be fine."
He steps into the elevator and rides down like it's a private stoop, the car humming away from the seventy eighth floor and delivering him to the lobby with the soft finality of a door that knows whose fingerprints belong on the brass. The marble underfoot is cooler down here; the light is curated, not accidental. A low banquette runs along one wall, a potted ficus keeps an eye on arrivals, and the thin front desk man, neat hair combed back, nameplate reading Rami, sits behind a slab of walnut and glass, polishing the morning as if it were a small, personal duty.
Outside the glass doors his Chrysler rolls up in that quiet, executive arrive-and-announce way; the driver gives a quick nod to Rami, who tips his head and tucks a ledger closed. The doorman swings the door wide. Sebastian steps out into the little theater of the building entrance. The bell clacks, shoes on wet mat, the city a thin roar beyond the glass.
And then the morning finds him in the only honest way mornings ever do: a blur and a sound. "Sebastian!" Cairo's voice peels across the street before the kid does.
A small human cannonball in the shape of Cairo launching himself at Sebastian in one glorious, graceless arc. Sebastian catches him, reflex and muscle remembering childhood in a single motion.
"Morning, Bassy," Cairo pants, grin bright and messy. He wraps his arms around Sebastian's neck the way small boys wrap themselves around certainty.
"Morning, baby boy." Sebastian greets, a quick kiss to the boy's temple.
Callie comes up behind them, sensible shoes tapping the pavement with brisk, no-nonsense rhythm. She's carrying a stack of sign-in sheets and a tote like it's a second person. "You plannin' on doin' your job today or just collectin' kids like trophies?" she asks in her New York cadence, half scold, half affection, dropping the clipboard to her side.
"Where's Caleb?" Sebastian asks, eyes already scanning for Caleb.
Cairo's grin slips. "Caleb's home sick," he says, the small admission making the atmosphere feel slightly bigger and quieter.
Callie fishes a folded note from the tote and thrusts it at him like a lifeline. "Don't freak, S. I already called the sitter you suggested. She's with Caleb. Kid's fine. Mostly," she says, the mostly a precise New York qualifier that manages both truth and reassurance. "You made a decent call for once."
Sebastian exhales and lets his forehead press to Cairo's curls for a second. Quick, private, measured. Then he sets the kid down. "You causein' mischief before nine?" he teases, sliding a hand down the boy's back.
"You said you'd drive me to school," Cairo reminds him, already bouncing on his toes.
"Fine. You're on my route," Sebastian says, shrugging.
Callie zips her tote closed. "I gotta bolt. Ten o'clock's gonna chew me up if I don't run. Don't forget the sign-in sheet, and keep him away from the pretzel carts or I'm comin' down there with a spatula." Her voice lands like both a warning and a benediction—New York shorthand for care.
"Callie," he says tenderly. "It's fine, I got this."
"You're a lifesaver, Bas," she says, and means it. She gives him a half salute, half eye-roll, and already she's moving with a purposeful stride that keeps the lobby from tipping into chaos.
They thread out of the building together. Sebastian buckles Cairo into the car with the practiced, efficient motions of someone who does small domestic rites better than most do grand gestures. The city takes them in: horns, a vendor calling, the morning traffic giving the day its first impatient rhythm. His phone buzzes in his pocket; Grace's name lights the screen. He presses it to his ear while checking the rearview, Cairo's small reflection watching from the backseat.
The Chrysler glides through traffic and the car's dashboard blooms with an incoming call: GRACE KELLER, her photo small and no-nonsense. Sebastian taps the screen and sets the speaker to the low, efficient volume he prefers for motherly calls.
"Where are you?" Grace's voice comes through like she's folded a scold into a question.
"In the car," he says, eyes flicking to the rearview where Cairo's profile is small against the window. "We're heading to school. Caleb's home sick."
"Take care of them and then get your head together," she says. There's a softer edge under her scold. "Also, you need an assistant before you hire another disaster from your contacts list."
"I know," he replies, rubbing his temple. "I'm trying. It's... a lot."
"You always say that," she snaps, but the snap has warmth under it. "Don't make me come up there and sort your life with a clipboard."
"Save the clipboard," he says, and a short laugh breaks through. "I'll handle it."
The dashboard shows call duration and a blue dot for signal strength. The tiny blue dot goes gray—then the call cuts. He thumbs the screen to redial, but the car in front suddenly jerks, engine coughing and stopping. Sebastian jerks the wheel and slams the brakes, but feels the bump before he can think.
"Fuck," he says out loud. The impact is a blunt little punctuation that knocks the breath out of him for one clean second.
"Are you okay?" Cairo asks from the back, voice high and fast.
"Yeah," Sebastian says, more to steady himself than to lie. He presses a hand to his chest. "I'm fine. You okay back there?"
Cairo's voice comes quick. "Yeah. Scared, but okay."
Shaken, Sebastian's body nearly gives out. His head spins, but he quickly presses against the car to keep from toppling over. Once his vision returns, he notices he'd run straight into the back of an older car - the same old mini he'd honked at earlier.
"No, no, no, no, no!" A voice shouts, sounding as horrified as anyone would be in such a predicament.
"Great. So much for driving myself today." Sebastian mutters, then sucks air through his teeth, exasperated.
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