She clinked her glass against his.“And not something we have to recover from.”
They both smirked—less charm, more truth.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It sat between them like heat. Not loud, not urgent, but charged. Like maybe they understood something about each other now. Something past the pitch decks and perfect answers.
After dessert he said, “no pressure, but I’d love for you to see my place. There’s a vintage bottle I’ve been saving, and I promise not to pour anything without your full consent.”
Sabine paused. Not out of fear. Just…reflection.
But she said yes anyway.
Harlan’s condo overlooked the skyline like it had been handpicked by the architect to watch the stars. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble countertops. A turntable played something low and jazzy in the corner. Real vinyl. One wall held a shelf full of Black authors—Coates, Hooks, Baldwin, Morrison, Butler, Ellison. Another wall held framed black-and-white photographs. One of a boy she guessed was him. Another, of a woman with his eyes.
“Your mother?” she asked.
He nodded once. “She passed a few years ago. Still runs things from heaven.”
“She raised you well.” Sabine smiled.
Harlan didn’t respond right away. Just walked to the bar cart and poured them each a glass of deep crimson wine. “I hope so,” he said finally, handing her the glass. He motioned with his hand and they sat down on the sectional—closer than they had at the restaurant, but not too close. There was space for her to breathe.
“This is beautiful,” Sabine complimented, sipping.
“Built it for solitude,” he said. “Didn’t know I’d ever want to share it.”
That line should’ve felt like a setup but it didn’t. He said it with no performance, just a truth offered into the open.
They talked more. Not about business. About their fathers.What they learned, what they carried. Sabine shared a small, special memory about how Adair used to hold Ade’s feet when he was a baby—just hold them like they were too precious toset down. Harlan listened, really listened, not shrinking at the mention of another man. Just nodding, present.
And then—not suddenly—he touched her.
A shift in the way he sat. A warm hand on her knee, thumb brushing her skin. Sabine didn’t move or pull away but the feeling was so new. Another man’s hand on her in such a way.
When he leaned in, she let him.
The kiss was soft. Confident. His lips knew how to ask and not assume. His hand came to rest at her waist, then glided slowly down her hip. Another kiss—this one just under her jaw. His other hand traced her thigh, fingers warm through the thin fabric of her dress.
And then?—
Sabine’s body didn’t follow.
Froze. Not out of fear. Not from discomfort.
But…from something deeper.
Something she couldn’t name.
Actually it did have a name—she just refused to acknowledge it. In that moment of failure, she genuinely wanted it to. She’d said yes. She’d gotten dressed. She’d showed up. She’d told herself she was ready but her breath slowed instead of quickening. Her pulse flatlined instead of pressurized. It was that her body couldn’tbelievehim yet. Couldn’t believeherselfyet.
The desire had started at dinner but somewhere between the couch cushion and the slow kiss on her neck, her mind had drifted. Not to guilt but to disconnection. To the emptiness she remembered too well, of doing things with her body when her spirit wasn’t in the room. She placed a gentle hand on his chest and leaned back.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Harlan pulled away immediately, no irritation. His hand left her body like it had only ever meant to be there with full permission.
“Hey, it’s okay, don’t apologize.”
“I thought I was ready,” she said softly, shaking her head. “But I think…my body isn’t there yet.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Sabine,” he said, voice sure. “And that’s not a line.”