By the time Clare Bennett crashed into a stranger’s arms under a roaring shower on the forty-second floor, Portland, Oregon, had already turned into a sheet of wet glass far below her.

Outside, the autumn rain washed over downtown like a steady gray curtain, turning SW 1st Avenue into a river of headlights and neon. Inside Riverside Towers—a brand-new luxury high-rise hugging the Willamette River and already all over Portland lifestyle blogs—the world was quiet, polished, and perfectly staged, as if real life had been asked to wait politely in the lobby.

Clare adjusted her camera for what felt like the hundredth time, the tripod a familiar weight beneath her hands. Twenty-eight, freelance architectural photographer, student loans, one temperamental car, one judgy cat, and this: a chance to shoot the penthouse of the most talked-about building in the Pacific Northwest.

The penthouse was everything the developer had promised in the glossy pitch deck. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the river and the glittering bridges. The open concept living room bled into a chef’s kitchen stacked with gleaming appliances no one would ever actually use. Every surface whispered money.

But it was the bathroom that stopped Clare in her tracks.

She pushed open the pocket door off the master bedroom and just stood there a moment, the way she sometimes did when she found a space that hummed with intent.

The ensuite was a temple.

Cream and champagne marble climbed all the way up the walls, veined like swirling clouds frozen in stone. Recessed lights warmed the room instead of bleaching it. A freestanding tub sat at an angle facing a glass wall, so whoever soaked there could watch the lights of Portland and the slow ribbon of the Willamette without being seen.

And then there was the shower.

It wasn’t just a shower. It was a glass box big enough to host a meeting. Frameless, crystal-clear panels. Rainfall showerheads embedded in the ceiling. Multiple jets at different heights along the wall. An almost invisible panel near the edge—one of those smart luxury features that would impress coastal buyers browsing listings from Los Angeles or New York.

“Okay,” Clare murmured to herself, setting her tripod near the edge of the shower. “You are ridiculous. And you are going to photograph beautifully.”

Her dark auburn hair was scraped back into a messy bun that had once been neat. Her green eyes narrowed in concentration as she crouched, then stood, then angled the camera again. She was chasing the exact point where the shower glass, the tub, and the city lights all layered into one perfect shot.

She checked her light meter. Adjusted her ISO. Tilted the lens a few millimeters.

Rain drummed softly against the exterior glass far beyond the bathroom. The muffled hum of Portland traffic floated up forty-two stories, distant and harmless.

She didn’t hear the penthouse door open.

Across downtown, in another glass tower that stabbed at the low clouds, Owen Lancaster stared at the flood report on his laptop and felt his stomach clench.

A burst pipe. On launch week. In the building that carried his family’s name in every internal pitch meeting, even if the public branding didn’t say “Lancaster” anywhere on the glossy brochures.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

At thirty-two, Owen was the youngest senior partner at Lancaster & Associates, the architecture firm his grandfather had started in Portland half a century ago on a folding table and a sketch pad. His father had grown it, added bigger clients, higher floors, taller glass. Now it was Owen’s turn to prove he wasn’t just the kid who’d inherited a legacy.

Tonight was supposed to be his night off. He’d promised himself no late meetings, no emergency revisions, no obsessively refreshing email. Maybe even take the streetcar back to his Pearl District apartment at a reasonable hour like a normal person.

Then his cell phone rang. Building management. Riverside Towers. Model unit pipe failure. Emergency.

He was still in his office, shoes off, white shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie abandoned over the back of his chair. In less than five minutes he had his keys, his jacket, and that heavy sense of responsibility sitting between his shoulder blades again.

By the time he pulled into the underground garage at Riverside Towers, the Portland rain had deepened from drizzle to a constant, steady fall—typical Pacific Northwest, the kind tourists underestimated until their shoes surrendered.

The building manager met him in the lobby, relief all over his face.

“It’s the lower model unit, Mr. Lancaster,” he said, almost breathless. “The pipe’s been shut off, water’s contained. Maintenance is mopping up. We just… we really need you to walk the penthouse, make sure we’re good before the photographer finishes up. Marketing wants to push the photos out to buyers in New York and Seattle first thing tomorrow.”

Of course they did.

Owen nodded. “Any water reach the upper floors?”

“No, sir. Penthouse is dry. We checked the main lines. But with the tech in there, the smart systems… we didn’t want to take any chances.”

They handed him the master key. The one he’d carried all week as he’d done final walkthroughs. He stepped into the private elevator that only rose to the top three floors.

It was quiet inside the car, the kind of silence you only got in expensive buildings. Owen watched the numbers climb: 39, 40, 41, 42. He watched his reflection in the polished doors. Dark hair a little too long because he’d missed his last haircut. Blue-gray eyes ringed with fatigue. Jaw set in that familiar line that said everything he wasn’t willing to say out loud.

The doors opened onto the penthouse foyer. Soft lighting. Art chosen by someone with too much money and a Pinterest board. He could see the glow from the open living area and hear the faint whir of… something.

A camera shutter.

“Photographer’s still here,” he murmured.

He didn’t want to disturb the shoot. Marketing teams were vicious when you messed with their timelines. He slipped inside quietly, closing the door behind him, and moved through the space on autopilot, the way you only can when you’ve walked a floor plan a hundred times before it ever existed in real life.

The lights were low, turned to that warm, ambient setting that made the city glow outside the windows. The river looked like a strip of oil-slick light; the bridges like necklaces.

He headed toward the master suite.

A soft curse floated from the bathroom. Something about exposure. Another click.

He pushed the door open.

For one suspended second, Owen just took in the scene like he was the one behind the camera.

A woman stood near the edge of the glass shower, her back to him, barefoot on the plush stone-look tile. She was all angles and focus—dark hair twisted into a bun that was losing the battle, the curve of her neck elegant above the collar of a cream blouse, jeans hugging long legs. Her hands moved over a professional DSLR mounted on the tripod, adjusting dials like she was playing an instrument.

She muttered something under her breath about highlights and contrast.

He opened his mouth to announce himself—to say, Hi, it’s just building management, don’t freak out, you’re not alone up here on the top floor of an American high-rise at night.

But she moved first.

Clare took one tiny step back to widen her angle, eyes glued to the viewfinder, and her heel hit the tripod leg.

The world lurched.

She wobbled, arms flailing for balance as the tripod tried to tip. “Whoa—”

Owen reacted on instinct. He lunged forward and caught her around the waist, his hands closing over soaked cotton and warm skin a split second before gravity did.

The tripod rocked, wobbled, miraculously held.

They did not.

Their combined weight pulled them backward across the smooth tile and through the invisible threshold of the walk-in shower. The edge of the glass vanished under their bodies, and they landed in a tangle on the floor.

The impact triggered the smart system.

Motion sensors flared to life. Every single luxury feature Owen had signed off on—every rain head in the ceiling, every wall jet, every gentle cascade that was supposed to charm buyers from Los Angeles to Miami—roared on at once.

Warm water slammed into them from above and from the side in a full-body ambush.

Clare gasped. One second she was focused on angles and light; the next she was on the floor of the shower, fully clothed, water pouring over her like she’d stepped into a storm. Her hair fell out of its bun in wet strands around her face. Her blouse clung to her like a second skin. Her pulse hammered in her ears.

There were arms around her. Strong, solid arms, holding her tight around the waist, keeping her from sliding again.

His chest was pressed to her back, broad and firm and shockingly warm under the onslaught of water. She could feel his heart racing almost as fast as hers.

“I’m sorry,” a deep voice said at her ear, breathless. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you hurt?”

Clare tried to push herself up. Her palms slid on the marble, legs skidding in the water that was already pooling and streaming toward the drain. Her knee went out from under her, and the man’s grip tightened, anchoring her.

“The sensors,” he raised his voice over the thunder of water. “They’re motion-activated. We just have to get out of range and they’ll—”

They tried to move together.

Bad idea.

Her foot shot out from under her again, his center of balance followed, and they went down harder, both of them sliding across the slick floor. His body twisted, and he took the brunt of the impact, his arm tightening around her as if his first instinct was to shield her from the tile.

She ended up cradled against him like he’d meant to do that all along. Water hammered down on them from overhead, ran in sheets over his shoulders, her arms, across their faces.

“Stop,” he said, firm but not harsh. “Just—stop moving for a second. You’re going to get hurt if we keep flailing around.”

She froze, panting, blinking water out of her eyes. His chest rose and fell against her back, steady despite the chaos. His hand was still splayed across her midsection, fingers spread, strong and careful.

He stretched one arm out, fingertips searching along the wall near the edge of the shower.

“Manual override,” he muttered. “Come on. I know I told them not to hide you—”

She felt him lean in, his full weight briefly pressing more firmly against her, his breath warm near her ear despite everything.

His fingers found a concealed panel. A click sounded, and then, blessedly, the deluge cut off.

The silence that replaced it was almost louder than the water had been. Only their breathing and the soft drip of water off glass, skin, and marble filled the room.

For a long second neither of them moved. The world had shrunk to a warm, wet glass box, two racing heartbeats, and the awareness that she was wrapped up in a stranger’s body on the floor of a multimillion-dollar American penthouse.

Then, slowly, he eased his arm away from her waist and shifted back, giving her space.

The sudden absence of his warmth sent a small, ridiculous shiver through her.

“Are you all right?” he asked again, this time softer.

Clare pushed wet hair from her face and drew in a shaky breath. “Yeah,” she said, though her voice came out thin. “I think my dignity drowned, but everything else seems okay. Very, very wet, but okay.”

A quiet sound escaped him. It took her a second to realize he was laughing, just under his breath.

“I really am sorry,” he said. “I should’ve announced myself when I came in. I’m Owen Lancaster. My firm designed this place. There was a burst pipe in one of the model units on a lower floor. I came to check the penthouse. I didn’t mean to—”

“Ambush a stranger in a shower?” Clare finished.

“Exactly.”

She tried to twist around to face him, her elbow seeking purchase on the slick floor. Her hand skidded, her foot slid, and once again gravity had opinions.

They went sideways together, out through the open shower door, and onto the warm marble just outside the enclosure. Clare ended up half sprawled across his chest this time, her fingers pressed to the soaked fabric of his shirt, his arms instinctively wrapping around her like he’d done this a hundred times instead of twice in two minutes.

They lay there for half a beat, both breathing hard, water dripping from their hair and clothes, the room lit in soft gold.

Clare lifted her head.

He was closer than she’d anticipated, closer than anyone had been to her in a long time. Dark lashes clung together from the soaking. Drops of water tracked down a strong nose and along a sharp jaw. His mouth was pressed into a line that was halfway between concern and disbelief.

But it was his eyes that caught her: blue-gray, clear despite everything, fixed on her with an intensity that made something low in her stomach flip.

He was handsome in a way that didn’t quite fit the perfect, polished aesthetic of the penthouse. More real. Slightly mussed dark hair that had probably been tidy before the impromptu shower. A day’s worth of stubble darkening his jaw. Lines at the corners of his eyes that said he laughed sometimes, even if tonight hadn’t started that way.

“I think,” Owen said slowly, his voice threaded with humor now, “we’re having some coordination issues.”

A bubble of laughter burst out of Clare before she could stop it. Real laughter, the kind that came from her chest instead of the polite place.

It was ridiculous. It was wet. It was completely insane.

It was also the first time in weeks she’d laughed like that.

Her giggles shook both of them, and after a second, his shoulders joined in, his own laugh low and warm and oddly contagious in the echoing bathroom.

“Okay,” she said finally, still breathless. “We have to stop before I drown from inhaling my own amusement.”

“Agreed,” he replied. “I’m going to try sitting up. Very slowly. No sudden moves. Truce?”

“Truce.”

They moved together this time, conscious of each shift. Clare braced her palms carefully, and he used his arms to lift them both, guiding her as if he’d decided she was his responsibility now.

They managed to get upright without another pratfall. Victory.

Then Clare looked down.

Her cream blouse, which had been fine five minutes ago, was now all but transparent, clinging relentlessly to her skin. She could feel heat rush to her face as she yanked her arms across her chest, trying to preserve some modesty.

His gaze flicked down, then away so fast it was almost comical. His own shirt was soaked, white cotton plastered to a torso that was all lean muscle and tension. The sleeves clung to his forearms, revealing strong cords of muscle there. His dress pants were dark with water.

He reached blindly toward the towel rack near the tub, grabbed a towel, then paused, not looking directly at her.

“May I?” he asked, holding the towel out without lifting his eyes above her shoulders.

“Please,” she said, grateful.

He passed her a towel like it was an offering, then grabbed another for himself. She wrapped the thick cotton around her shoulders and front, securing it tightly, instantly feeling a little less exposed and a little more human.

“Your camera,” he said suddenly, panic flashing across his face. “Did it—?”

Clare’s heart stopped for a beat. Her camera. Her gear. Her entire livelihood.

She spun toward the shower entrance, dread coiling inside her.

The tripod stood just outside the edge of the spray pattern, the camera still perched on top like a solemn, mildly offended bird. A few droplets clung to the body, but not the full soaking she’d expected. Her camera bag had fallen on its side, but it too seemed mostly dry.

Clare exhaled hard enough to sway her damp hair.

“Still alive,” she called, crossing the distance and putting a gentle hand on the camera body. She checked quickly—no moisture in the wrong places, no red warning lights. “Canon weatherproofing, my beloved.”

When she turned back, towel wrapped securely, Owen was standing at the bathroom doorway. He’d given her space without thinking about it, his shoulder leaning against the frame, his eyes on her now that she was covered.

Concern. Relief. And something else, softer, lurking beneath.

“So,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching, “that’s one way to meet.”

“Crashing into a stranger in a multi-jet shower in an American luxury high-rise?” Clare lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah. Definitely not on my 2024 bingo card.”

“Not on mine either,” he said. He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face. “Look, I know this is awkward, but you really shouldn’t stay in those clothes. You’ll freeze the second the adrenaline wears off. There’s a washer and dryer in the unit. We can throw our stuff in. The building keeps extra bathrobes on hand—”

He broke off, color rising in his cheeks. For a man who had just tackled her twice in a bathroom, it was strangely endearing to see him blush.

“I mean,” he amended quickly, “you can have the master suite to change in. I’ll use the guest bath. Separate doors, separate rooms, very PG.”

Clare should have been more guarded. Should have panicked more, maybe. But he’d been nothing but careful and respectful, even when they were tangled together on the floor.

And she was starting to shiver.

“Okay,” she said. “Bathrobes. Laundry. Let’s pretend this is a normal Tuesday night in Portland.”

His smile was quick and genuine. “If this is normal, I have a lot of questions about what else happens in this city.”

He stepped out to the hall and opened a linen closet. Just like he’d said: stacks of white, hotel-grade bathrobes, each with the Riverside Towers logo embroidered discreetly on the chest. Future residents would love that. Buyers from New York or California would eat it up—Portland luxury with a boutique-hotel touch.

He handed her one, eyes carefully on her face. “Master bedroom is all yours,” he said. “I’ll… not be anywhere near it.”

“Very American of you,” she teased lightly. “Liability-conscious.”

“You have no idea,” he replied, the edge of a grin briefly returning.

Clare retreated into the master suite and closed the door behind her.

The room was beautiful in a way that made her photographer soul itch to shoot it from every angle: king-size bed with a charcoal headboard, soft gold lamps, the city spread out past the floor-to-ceiling windows like a postcard. The distant glow of Portland’s bridges, the lights of the Moda Center in the distance, the dark ribbon of I-5 cutting through it all.

She focused on the immediate practicality of not getting hypothermia.

Her clothes peeled away from her skin with the stubbornness of wet fabric. She had to hop on one foot to get her jeans off, stifling an absurd laugh at the memory of doing a similar hop moments earlier—just before she’d fallen into a stranger.

She draped her clothes over her arm, leaving a trail of water droplets across the carpet as she moved. The bathrobe was soft and warm when she pulled it around herself, belt cinched tight. It swallowed her, but in a comforting way.

When she stepped back into the hallway, Owen was there, similarly robed, his own bundle of clothes in his arms. Without the soaked shirt clinging to him, he somehow looked less like a senior partner whose name was on blueprints across the Pacific Northwest and more like a guy in his early thirties who’d wandered into a hotel spa at the wrong time.

His dark hair stuck up in places from his towel attack. The robe hung open slightly at his collarbone, hinting at the muscle beneath, but he kept it modest, like that was deliberate.

“The utility room’s this way,” he said, nodding down the hall toward the kitchen. His voice had gone carefully neutral, but his eyes flicked over her, taking in the robe, the damp ends of her hair. Color touched his cheeks again. He looked away quickly.

Somehow, seeing him just as off-balance as she felt made everything easier.

They crossed the polished kitchen—stainless steel appliances gleaming, quartz counters empty, as if waiting for a lifestyle blogger to stage their breakfast. Owen opened a closet door near the back, revealing a stacked washer and dryer that still smelled faintly of factory plastic.

He loaded both their clothes in, added detergent from a tidy shelf, and set the cycle.

The rush of water filling the drum was almost comically mundane after the storm in the shower.

“So,” Clare said, leaning against the doorframe, hugging her robe tighter. “Do you make a habit of accidentally tackling photographers in smart showers, or am I just special?”

His laugh came easier this time. “First offense,” he said. “Though if I’d known inspections could go like this, I would’ve volunteered for more of them.”

“And here I thought architectural photography was supposed to be boring,” she said.

“Clearly we’ve both been doing our jobs wrong,” he replied.

They walked back toward the open living space. The penthouse had never felt so lived-in to Clare. Two damp bathrobes, a humming washer, the faint smell of detergent—tiny human marks in a space that had only known staging and sales teams.

They settled on opposite ends of the oversized sectional sofa, towels under them to protect the upholstery because apparently both of them were responsible adults under the chaos. The rain blurred the view outside, turning the city lights into smudged constellations.

Owen angled his body toward her, one arm along the back of the couch, keeping a polite distance.

“I really am sorry,” he said again, quieter. “I walked in, saw you working, and didn’t want to break your concentration. Then suddenly we were doing stunt work for an insurance commercial.”

Clare smiled despite herself. “If I’d been paying attention to anything other than my shot, I might not have reversed into you like a malfunctioning Roomba,” she said. “We can call it a fifty-fifty mess.”

“Fifty-fifty,” he agreed. “Mutually assured humiliation.”

She laughed, and his expression softened, like he’d been waiting to see if she would smile like that again.

For a moment they just sat there, listening to the rain on the windows, the white noise of the dryer starting up, the distant honk of a car horn from streets far below in an American city that had no idea two strangers were wrapped in bathrobes forty-two floors above it.

“So,” he said, “architectural photographer. That’s… specific.”

“Obsession, some would say,” she replied. “How about you? Architect architect, or did you just get the last name and go, guess that’s my life now?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Little column A, little column B,” he said. “My grandfather started Lancaster & Associates with one client and a whole lot of stubbornness. My dad turned it into one of the bigger firms in the Pacific Northwest. Seattle, San Francisco, occasional New York job. I grew up with blueprints instead of bedtime stories.”

“And now you’re the golden child carrying the family empire,” Clare said softly.

He tilted his head, eyeing her. “Is it that obvious?”

“Your voice did a thing when you said ‘my grandfather,’” she said. “I shoot buildings for a living. People come with the package. Posture, tone, what they avoid talking about—it’s all part of the space.”

He looked almost impressed. “You’re good,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Your turn. How does someone end up pointing expensive cameras at bathrooms in a city that rains nine months out of the year?”

Clare traced an invisible line on the couch cushion with her finger.

“I studied photography at Portland State,” she said. “Thought I’d be shooting portraits. People. But it felt… invasive, sometimes. Like I was stealing something from them. Buildings are different. They want to be captured. They’re already performing.”

He listened, really listened, the way most people didn’t when she talked about this.

“I like the way spaces hold emotion,” she continued. “The way light falls through a room. The way a hallway can feel safe or threatening just because of the ceiling height. A good building is like a photograph you can walk into. It tells you how to feel.”

His eyes warmed. “That’s exactly it,” he said. “Spaces define how we move, how we connect. You walk into a cramped, badly lit office, your shoulders hunch. You walk into a room like this—” he gestured around them “—and you breathe differently. That’s what I want to design. Not just ‘expensive boxes in the sky’ for wealthy buyers from other states. Places that shift how people exist in them.”

She looked around with fresh eyes.

“And this place?” she asked. “What did you design it to do?”

“The windows do the obvious thing—show off the Portland skyline, make all the out-of-state buyers fall in love with the idea of living in the Pacific Northwest,” he said. “But it’s more than that. The layout pulls people toward the view together. The kitchen is open so friends end up gathered there. The bedroom is tucked away just enough to feel like a true retreat. I wanted it to feel like you were still part of the city without being swallowed by it.”

The way he spoke—hands moving, eyes all in—made something in her chest ache. This wasn’t just a job to him. It was a language.

“You love it,” she said simply.

“I do,” he admitted. Then his shoulders dropped slightly, as if the admission carried weight. “Maybe too much. The firm, the expectations, the endless deadlines. My friends joke that I’m married to glass and steel.”

“And yet here you are, in a bathrobe, soaking someone else’s Tuesday night,” Clare said. “You’re really slacking.”

He smiled, but there was a flicker of something more vulnerable there.

“What about you?” he asked. “You freelance in Portland… what, chasing contracts across the city and hoping clients remember to pay their invoices?”

“Pretty much,” she said dryly. “I do shoots for local architects, real estate developers, sometimes restaurants before they launch. A magazine spread if I get lucky. No big New York spreads yet, no Architectural Digest. Just me, my camera, my cat, and the constant fear that every job might be my last.”

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “the developer raved about your work from your last project. Said your photos made their Portland building look like something straight out of a Seattle or San Francisco listing.”

Heat crept up her neck. Compliments about her work always felt like something she didn’t quite know how to hold.

“Flattery from the architect himself,” she said. “I’ll add that to my portfolio.”

Silence settled again, but it was different now. Less awkward. More electric.

Owen watched her for a second, then took a breath like he’d decided something.

“Can I confess something?” he asked quietly.

Her pulse kicked up. “That depends,” she said. “Are we talking ‘I used the last of the detergent’ or ‘I secretly hate every building I’ve ever designed’?”

“Neither,” he said, a smile ghosting across his mouth before fading. “When we were in the shower, before I got to the manual override—”

“Well, that’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear on a Tuesday,” Clare murmured.

He huffed another soft laugh. “There was this moment,” he continued, ignoring the interruption. “Everything was chaos. We were soaked, slipping, completely out of control. And you just… fit. Against me. Like my body had been waiting to hold that exact shape.”

Clare’s breath caught.

“I know that sounds insane,” he said, quickly now. “We’re strangers. I shouldn’t even be saying it. But it didn’t feel wrong. It felt like this weird pocket of right in the middle of a disaster.”

The room shrank around them, the world narrowing to the space between their two ends of the couch.

“It doesn’t sound insane,” she said, surprising herself with the steadiness of her voice. “Or maybe I’m insane too, because I felt it. That flicker of… safety. Like somehow you were exactly the person who was supposed to be there when everything went sideways.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. Those blue-gray irises had darkened, edges softening.

“Clare,” he said, her name a question.

“Yes?” she whispered.

“This is probably the worst timing in the world,” he said slowly. “I am dripping wet, wearing a borrowed bathrobe in a penthouse I don’t own. But is it completely inappropriate if I ask to see you again? Not like this. In normal clothes, in actual dry conditions. An actual date. Somewhere that doesn’t involve emergency plumbing.”

A laugh burst from her lips, half nerves, half relief.

“I think,” she said, “that might be the best idea either of us has had all night.”

“Really?” he asked, hope cracking through his composure.

“Though we’re setting a pretty high bar for memorable first meetings,” she added. “Dinner in Seattle is going to feel very tame after ‘surprise communal shower in a Portland penthouse.’”

“We can start with dinner in Portland,” he said. “Maybe something simple. No running water except in the kitchen. I know a place in the Pearl—”

The dryer buzzed from the utility closet, making them both jump.

Clare exhaled a shaky breath, the spell broken just enough for her brain to reset.

“Looks like the universe wants us back in clothes,” she said lightly.

“Probably for the best,” Owen agreed.

They got up together. This time, when they walked down the hall, their shoulders brushed, and neither of them apologized.

Back in the utility room, Owen transferred the warm clothes from the dryer. The smell of clean cotton filled the small space. He handed Clare her bundled jeans and blouse.

“You can take the master again,” he said. “I’ll stick to the guest bathroom. No more ambushes, I promise.”

“See that you don’t,” she said with mock sternness.

When she emerged ten minutes later, fully clothed and properly dry, she barely recognized herself. Same dark green eyes, same auburn hair now combed back into some semblance of order, but something was different in the way she held herself. Lighter. Brighter.

Owen was waiting in the hallway, back in his white shirt and dark pants, sleeves rolled to his forearms again. He’d dried his hair enough to look more like an architect and less like a shipwreck survivor.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much,” she said. “I no longer feel like a contestant on some very weird reality show.”

He smiled. “Walk you to your car?” he offered. “Building security gets weird about unknown people roaming the garage alone, especially this late. Liability and all that fun American stuff.”

She hesitated. It was late. The rain outside had finally softened to a mist that blurred the city lights. And there was something about the way he asked—gentle, not pushy—that made it easy to say yes.

“Sure,” she said. “My car’s somewhere under all this concrete.”

They rode the elevator down in comfortable silence. The hum of the car, the flick of floor numbers. The mundane familiarity of it made the whole evening feel even more surreal.

In the underground garage, her small sedan looked almost comically out of place among the sleek SUVs and luxury cars with Washington and California plates.

“So,” Owen said, leaning a shoulder lightly against her car once she’d unlocked it. “Tomorrow. Seven? I can pick you up. There’s a restaurant on NW 13th I’ve been wanting to try. Supposedly good food, zero risk of spontaneous showers.”

She liked that he assumed nothing, that he still phrased it as a question.

“That sounds great,” she said. “We should probably exchange numbers like normal people instead of relying on the spirits of Riverside Towers to reunite us.”

They pulled out their phones, thumbs brushing briefly as they swapped devices. She added him as “Owen – Architect Shower Hazard” and bit back a grin.

When they handed the phones back, he was watching her with that look again. The one that felt like he was memorizing her.

“What?” she asked, self-conscious under it.

“Just committing this moment to memory,” he said. “In case I wake up tomorrow and discover that tonight was just a very vivid, extremely damp dream.”

“If it were a dream, I’d at least have had better reflexes,” she said.

He chuckled, the sound soft. Then he lifted a hand, hesitated, and gently tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering for half a second.

“Drive safe,” he said. “Text me when you get home. Please. I’ll pretend it’s for your safety and not for my own peace of mind.”

“I can do that,” she said.

She slid into the driver’s seat, heart banging against her ribs. He stepped back, giving her space. When she rolled down the window to say goodnight, he leaned in slightly.

“Clare,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” he said simply. “For falling into my life. Literally.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Anytime,” she answered, voice wry. “Though next time, let’s aim for a slightly drier entrance.”

He laughed, then stepped away as she pulled out of the parking spot.

In her rearview mirror she watched him stand there in the garage, hands in his pockets, watching her taillights disappear into the concrete maze. Something about the image lodged in her chest like a small, glowing stone.

The drive across Portland was short. The familiar turns from the river back toward her modest apartment building near SE Division came almost automatically. The city felt different somehow, like someone had dialed up the color temperature.

Her phone buzzed the moment she parked.

Owen: Did you make it home, or do I need to come rescue you from another plumbing-related catastrophe?

Clare smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.

Clare: Home. No pipes were harmed in the making of this trip.

Owen: Good. For the record, my hero complex is already overbooked this week.

She laughed, the sound echoing off the inside of her car.

By the time she climbed the stairs to her second-floor walk-up, her cat was already waiting at the door. Aperture—a gray tabby with opinions—meowed like she’d personally abandoned him for ten years.

“I know,” she said, scooping him up. “Tragic. I was gone for three hours and got attacked by a shower. What did you do tonight? Judge squirrels?”

He purred grudgingly, kneading her shoulder with small, sharp claws.

Clare tried to sleep.

She really did.

But every time she closed her eyes, she felt the slide of marble beneath her, the shock of warm water, the solid brace of Owen’s arms around her. The way his voice had dipped when he called her beautiful. The kiss they hadn’t had yet that somehow felt like it was already humming in the space between them.

She picked up her phone twice. Put it down again, because midnight texts felt like too much.

At 2:00 a.m., her phone buzzed.

Owen: Are you awake?

She stared at the screen, then snorted.

Clare: Very. My brain apparently missed the memo about bedtime.

Owen: Good. I was trying to be a responsible adult and not text you at 2 a.m., but clearly that’s not working.

Clare: Responsible adults don’t fall into showers with strangers in penthouses, Owen. I think that ship sailed around the time you tackled me.

Owen: Fair point. For what it’s worth, I’ve been sitting at my piano for an hour trying to play, but I keep getting distracted replaying tonight. My neighbors probably think I’m murdering Chopin.

Clare: You play piano?

Owen: Badly, according to my sister. I’m trying to prove her wrong. Tonight I mostly proved that thinking about you and keeping rhythm at the same time is above my skill level.

Heat flooded her face, even though no one could see it.

Clare: My cat already thinks I’ve lost it because I keep smiling at nothing. His judgment purr is very pointed.

Owen: What’s your cat’s name?

Clare: Aperture.

Owen: Of course it is. Perfect name for a photographer’s cat. Does he also refuse to work without proper lighting?

Clare snapped a quick photo of Aperture’s most offended expression and sent it.

They texted for nearly an hour. Tiny pieces of themselves passed back and forth across the digital space: favorite buildings in Portland, his love for old brick warehouses over shiny new construction, her secret fascination with abandoned malls in America’s forgotten towns, his sister the marine biologist in California, her childhood obsession with National Geographic.

The conversation flowed with the same strange ease as their talk on the couch, the same sense of having skipped to page fifty in a book and discovered it still somehow made sense.

Eventually, he texted:

Owen: We should probably try sleeping. Tomorrow is going to come at us like a freight train. I have meetings starting at 8, and I’d like my brain to be minimally functional for our date.

Clare: So tonight wasn’t a date?

Owen: Tonight was fate being dramatic. Tomorrow is my chance to deliberately court you like a semi-civilized American man.

The word court made her grin into the dark.

Clare: Okay, Mr. Semi-Civilized. Goodnight.

Owen: Goodnight, Clare. Dream of dry spaces and perfect light. See you in… 17 hours. Not that I’m counting.

She fell asleep with her phone on her chest, Aperture curled into the curve of her stomach, and for the first time in months, her dreams weren’t full of anxiety about invoices and deadlines. They were full of rain, glass, and blue-gray eyes.

The next day dragged.

She had editing to do from a restaurant shoot earlier in the week. A cozy spot in Southeast Portland that wanted to look like casual Instagram heaven for tourists driving up from California. On any other day she would have loved tweaking the warmth, getting the wood tones just right, making steam off coffee cups look like something out of a New York magazine spread.

Today, every time she stared at her laptop, the words “tomorrow night, seven” flashed behind her eyes.

At four, she gave up and started getting ready. That was ridiculous, and she knew it. But still.

She showered, blow-dried her hair, actually took the time to style it in soft waves. She put on makeup with more care than usual: liner that made her green eyes sharper, a soft lip color that made her look like a slightly more polished version of herself.

She changed outfits three times before settling on a dark green dress that hit mid-thigh and made her eyes look brighter, paired with black ankle boots and a worn leather jacket. Portland smart casual, with just enough intention that no one could pretend it was an accident.

Aperture watched from his perch on the back of the couch, tail flicking.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she told him. “You’ve never had a date with a guy who has literally already seen you in a bathrobe.”

At 6:55 p.m., her phone buzzed.

Her stomach did a flip.

It wasn’t a call; it was a text.

Owen: I am so, so sorry. There’s been an accident at one of our construction sites in Beaverton. A worker was injured. I have to be there. They’re taking him to OHSU now. I know this is terrible timing, and you have every right to be angry. Can we reschedule?

The disappointment hit hard and immediate, a physical drop in her chest.

But behind it, almost at once, came understanding. Responsibility. The image of him in a hard hat on a muddy site, talking to EMTs and site managers, trying to make sure someone else’s worst day wasn’t made worse by negligence.

Clare sat down slowly on the edge of her couch, thumb hovering over the screen.

Clare: Is he okay?

Owen: They think so. Concussion, broken arm, but stable. I just… I need to be there. Lancaster & Associates, all the legal stuff, OSHA—this is one of those times when being the guy whose name is on the drawings means staying until the last clipboard leaves.

Clare: Of course you need to be there. Don’t worry about tonight. Real life happens.

There was a pause, then:

Owen: You are being very understanding about this, and I don’t deserve it. I swear I will make this up to you. With dinner. And dessert. And probably bribery in the form of coffee.

Clare: Stop. It’s okay. Just text me later to say you’re alive.

Owen: Deal.

She set her phone face down on the coffee table, her carefully chosen dress suddenly feeling too much for a night that no longer had anywhere to go.

Aperture hopped into her lap and flopped dramatically, as if to say, See? This is why I don’t date.

“Yeah, yeah,” she murmured, scratching behind his ears. “I know.”

Twenty minutes later, her doorbell rang.

Her brows knit. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She padded barefoot to the door and peered through the peephole.

A delivery person stood there, rain jacket beaded with mist, holding what looked like half a wildflower field.

She opened the door. “Hi?”

“Clare Bennett?” the delivery person asked.

“That’s me.”

“These are for you,” he said, handing over the bouquet. “Have a good night.”

Clare almost dropped them. The bouquet was huge, a riot of color in her small entryway. Not the stiff, formal roses she’d seen in storefronts near downtown, but sprays of purple and yellow and white wildflowers, mixed with just enough greenery to make it look deliberate rather than chaotic.

There was a small card tucked in the middle.

She pulled it free with trembling fingers.

Clare,

Flowers don’t fix a canceled date, but I wanted you to know I was thinking of you. These are wildflowers because you seem like the kind of person who prefers beautiful chaos to perfect roses.

The worker is going to be okay. I’m still at the site, but I’ll call you later.

– Owen

Her throat tightened.

Beautiful chaos.

He’d read her that clearly in one night.

She put the flowers in the only vase she owned—a repurposed tall glass—and snapped a quick photo. The wildflowers looked almost unreal against her small kitchen counter, the Portland rain visible through the window behind them.

She texted the picture.

Clare: They’re perfect. Thank you. You’re right about the wildflowers.

Owen: I’m glad you like them. The florist tried to talk me into long-stemmed roses. I told her I needed something that looked like a small, elegant explosion.

Clare: That’s… weirdly accurate.

Owen: I’m still on-site. Paperwork, calls, a thousand questions. But knowing those flowers are there makes this feel a little less awful. I’ll make this up to you. Promise.

The week that followed was a crash course in almosts.

Owen texted every day. Quick messages between meetings: photos of interesting Portland facades, sarcastic commentary about conference calls, a picture of his “office dinner” (cold takeout eaten over blueprints), a shot of his hand on a piano keyboard with the caption: “Still butchering Chopin. He’s haunting me from France.”

They tried to reschedule their date twice. Each time, something pulled him away—an emergency meeting with the city inspector, a client crisis, a last-minute flight to San Francisco for a pitch.

He never vanished. He never ghosted. He always told her, always apologized, never assumed she’d just understand.

And somehow, that honesty made the waiting bearable.

On the fourth day, Clare was shooting a restaurant renovation in Northeast Portland—the kind of place that would proudly list the names of local farms on its menu—when her phone buzzed in her back pocket.

Between shots, she glanced at the screen.

Owen: Okay. I have a crazy idea. You can absolutely say no. You probably should say no. But I’m asking anyway.

Her eyebrows lifted.

Clare: This is an intriguing start.

Owen: I have to fly to Seattle tomorrow for a meeting with a potential client. Just one night. Fly up from PDX in the morning, meeting in downtown Seattle, fly back the next afternoon. I was wondering… would you want to come with me?

She stopped in the middle of the half-finished dining room. Dust motes drifted in the light from the big windows facing the street. Hammers echoed faintly in the background.

Come with me.

Owen: Separate rooms. Obviously. I’m not a total caveman. You wouldn’t have to sit in on the meeting unless you wanted to. You could explore the city, take photos, drink overpriced coffee in Pike Place. I just thought… we could finally have dinner. An actual first date. In a city that isn’t trying to drown us.

Clare stared at the message, her heart thudding.

Fly to another city. With a man she’d technically only met once. For less than twenty-four hours.

Every self-defense article she’d ever read screamed in the back of her mind. Every cautious instinct told her this was fast, too fast.

But then she remembered the way he’d reached for the manual override, the way he’d shielded her body in the fall, the way he’d treated her work with respect and her time like it mattered. The wildflowers in her kitchen. The fact that he’d offered separate hotel rooms before she’d even asked.

Sometimes the safe choice wasn’t the one that led anywhere. Sometimes you had to risk a little to find something real.

She forced her fingers to stop trembling and typed.

Clare: What time is the flight?

There was a beat of silence on his end. Then:

Owen: Does that mean you’re considering it?

Clare: It means I’m asking what time the flight is.

Owen: 10:00 a.m. out of PDX. Back from SEA-TAC the next day at 3:15. I’ll pick you up at 9. And seriously, Clare, if this feels like too much, too soon, tell me. I don’t want you to feel pressured.

She looked out the window. Cars crawled along the wet Portland streets. A bus splashed through a puddle. Somewhere out there, a plane was landing at Portland International, its lights cutting through clouds low over the Columbia River.

Her life, until now, had been careful. Calculated. Safe. Don’t risk too much, in case too much gets taken.

For once, she wanted to pick the other option.

Clare: Okay. I’ll be ready at 9. But you’re buying me breakfast in Seattle.

The reply came almost instantly.

Owen: Deal. I’ll find you the best pancakes in the city. Or the best espresso. Or both. Clare?

Clare: Yeah?

Owen: Thank you. For taking a chance on me.

She slid her phone back into her pocket, heart still racing, and lifted her camera again. The unfinished restaurant blurred in her viewfinder for a second before she blinked hard and focused.

Tomorrow, she’d be pointing a lens at an entirely different skyline. Seattle, Washington. Space Needle. Ferries. Another American city under another blanket of autumn clouds.

Tonight, she had one more scene to shoot.

Her phone buzzed again just as she finished the last frame of the day. This time the caller ID made her smile.

Natasha.

Her best friend since freshman year of college. The one who had seen her through breakups, bad clients, and broken camera straps.

Clare answered, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder as she packed up her gear.

“You were supposed to call me yesterday,” Natasha’s voice scolded immediately, the faint background noise of New York City filtering through—horns, sirens, the chaos of the East Coast.

“I got distracted by life,” Clare said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. “Hi, Tash.”

“You sound weird,” Natasha said. “Weird good or weird bad? Tell me everything. Did a building finally fall on you? Did Aperture learn to talk? Did you meet someone? Oh my God, you met someone, didn’t you?”

Clare laughed, the sound echoing off the unfinished restaurant walls.

“You have no idea,” she said. “Get comfortable. This is going to sound like a plot from one of your trashy American romance novels.”