Friday arrived without fanfare.
At exactly 6:55 p.m., Camille's phone lit up.
I'm outside.
No dramatic apology.
No excessive charm.
Just presence.
She stepped out of her apartment building five minutes later.
The Lamborghini was there again.
Engine off.
He was standing beside it.
Waiting.
Not on a call.
Not distracted.
Not checking his watch.
Waiting.
She noticed.
"You're early," she said as she approached.
"I said seven."
"It's 6:59."
He held her gaze.
"Exactly."
A small shift moved through her expression.
Not softness.
Approval.
He opened the door for her, then walked around to the driver's side. When he got in, his phone buzzed once against the centre console.
He glanced at the screen.
Declined the call.
Without explanation.
She noticed that too.
"Work?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And?"
"It can wait."
The simplicity of it did more than a bouquet ever could.
They drove to a private rooftop restaurant overlooking the city — understated, not crowded, not performative. A reservation already secured. No waiting.
At the table, he placed his phone face down.
Then, deliberately, switched it to silent.
"Is that necessary?" she asked.
"Yes."
"For me?"
"For focus."
The distinction mattered.
Dinner unfolded without rush. Conversation moved from light to layered — childhood habits, business philosophies, why he disliked inefficiency, why she valued independence.
Halfway through, he leaned back slightly.
"I don't date multiple women," he said.
No build-up.
No prompting.
She met his eyes steadily.
"I know."
"No," he corrected quietly. "You assumed."
A pause.
"I don't split attention. I don't entertain options while building something."
Her fingers rested lightly around her glass.
"And what are you building?" she asked.
He didn't hesitate.
"You."
The word was deliberate.
Not possession.
Intention.
Silence stretched — but it wasn't fragile.
It was solid.
"I don't require constant attention," she said evenly. "I require consistency."
"You'll have it."
Not a promise tossed lightly.
A commitment measured.
She studied him for a long moment.
"You didn't overcompensate tonight," she observed.
"I didn't fail."
The quiet confidence in that statement almost made her smile.
"No," she admitted. "You didn't."
Across the table, something shifted again.
Not tension this time.
Stability.
He had not shown up with flowers.
He had not apologised theatrically.
He had simply been present.
Undivided.
And for Camille, that spoke louder than spectacle ever could.
As the evening wound down, he walked her back to the car.
This time, when his hand rested at her lower back, it wasn't testing.
It was natural.
Earned.
And she didn't pull away.