Beneath Her Ice

Moving in didn't happen all at once.

There was no dramatic box drop or key handoff. No Instagram-worthy "We're official!" moment.

Instead, it began with a toothbrush.

Will found it one morning tucked beside his own — a sleek, matte-black thing that matched none of his usual chaos. And just like that, Eliza Darcy had claimed space.

He stared at it, a little stunned.

Not because it was there — but because he wanted it there.

"You realize this means war," he said over breakfast, holding the toothbrush up like a smoking gun.

Eliza didn't look up from her tablet. "It's a dental hygiene tool, not a declaration of conquest."

He grinned. "Oh, it's both."

She flicked her gaze to him, lips twitching. "You have six shirts in my closet and a pair of sneakers under my bed. I figured we were past the invasion phase."

Will walked around the kitchen island and kissed the top of her head. "Just making sure we're on the same page, General Darcy."

She rolled her eyes, but she didn't pull away.

That afternoon, they made it official — not with a contract, but with a lease.

A new place. Neutral territory. Midway between his nonprofit HQ in Brooklyn and her company's sleek towers in Manhattan. Industrial loft. Tall ceilings. Room for his plants and her silence.

Eliza insisted on separate workspaces.

Will insisted on a coffee machine that didn't require a PhD.

They negotiated like it was a merger, bickered over rugs, compromised on art. Somewhere between arguing about throw pillows and testing mattress firmness, they fell deeper into each other.

The first night in the new apartment was chaos.

Unpacked boxes. Takeout containers. A spilled bottle of red wine and two bodies sprawled across a mattress on the floor.

Eliza's hair was mussed from the move. Her face was makeup-free. And Will, lying beside her shirtless, thought she'd never looked more untouchable — or more his.

She reached for the wineglass again, laughing as she sipped. "We own nothing functional except for two wine glasses, three forks, and a coffee grinder."

Will looked over at her, eyes hooded. "I think we're officially adults."

She handed him the glass and nudged his shoulder. "Define 'adult.'"

He sipped, then leaned in. "Someone who knows exactly what they want."

"And what do you want?"

"You."

The word was quiet. Sure.

She inhaled — not sharply, but deeply — like it meant something more than the usual declarations.

And maybe it did.

Because ten minutes later, she was beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, skin slick with wine and want.

They made love slowly, like there was no rush. No one to impress. No need to win.

Just skin against skin. Heart against heart.

When it was over, she lay curled against him, lips at his throat.

"I didn't think I'd ever do this," she whispered.

"Live with someone?"

"No," she said. "Trust someone."

Will kissed her hair. "Then we're doing it right."

Later that week, he opened the top drawer of their shared dresser and found more than just her toothbrush.

A silk scarf.

A small bottle of her perfume.

A jewelry tray shaped like a crescent moon.

She hadn't said the words yet. Love. Forever. Stay.

But her scent in his drawer said enough.

She was still Eliza Darcy. Still sharp. Still sovereign.

But now, she was also his.

And he was hers.

No fanfare.

No ice.

Just home.