Chapter 241

Summer's POV

I launched myself into his arms before he could even close the door behind him.

He caught me effortlessly, his strong arms wrapping around my waist as I buried my face in his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him. I couldn't stop holding him—his shoulders, his chest—needing to confirm he was really here and not just a product of my lonely imagination.

"Hey, hey," he murmured, his hand stroking my hair. "I'm here. It's not a dream."

"I know," I whispered, feeling the solid warmth of him. "I can feel you now." I pulled back just enough to look at his face. His suit was pristine, and he didn't look like a man who had just spent hours on a cold winter highway. "How long have you been here? You’re not even cold."

The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. "What's wrong? Not happy to see me?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I said, clinging tighter. "I'm beyond happy. It's just so late, and..." Reality crashed back. "Wait, didn't you say the Sinclairs had people following me? What if they saw you?"

"They won't know I'm here," Brandon said, his voice calm and certain. "Don't worry about it. I'm not leaving you tonight." His hands settled on my waist, giving a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

I took a deep breath, gathering my courage, then stepped back and squared my shoulders, trying to look stern despite my racing heart. "Let's get one thing straight—this is my apartment now. You don't just get to waltz in and out whenever you feel like it. While you're under this roof, you follow my rules. Got it?"

Brandon's eyes darkened with a playful, intense heat. "Got it."

He caught my hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. "Whatever you command."

A thrill shot through me, but I maintained my expression. "Good. Now tell me the truth—what exactly are you doing here in the middle of the night?"

"You really don't know?" Brandon's voice dropped to a low, magnetic register.

He stepped closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. He didn't need to say anything more; the intensity in his dark eyes said it all. He had come because he couldn't stand being apart any more than I could.

Hours later, the apartment was silent, the golden light of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the room. I settled against his chest, listening to the steady, grounding beat of his heart.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered into the darkness, his fingers intertwining with mine.

"I know," I replied, my voice soft with contentment. The fear and loneliness of the evening had vanished, replaced by the profound safety of his arms. As I drifted off to sleep, I knew that no matter what storms the Sinclairs or the media brewed outside, as long as he was here, we could handle anything.