“If I wasted my money on unnecessary shit,” I said, opening the passenger door for her, “I wouldn’t be able to pay my staff. Or rent. Or, you know, food. I’m not a millionaire. Not yet, anyway.”

She rolled her eyes but climbed in, tucking her bag between her feet. “I’m not saying it’s a bad car. Actually, it’s pretty nice. But still,” she huffed, shifting in her seat. “I expected at least something with cup holders. You really don’t want a fancy car?”

“No,” I said, circling around to the driver’s side. “Not unless it comes with a button that can undo the worst year of my life.”

The playful smile she had been wearing faded.

I got in beside her, started the engine, and let the purr of it cover the silence for a few seconds.

“So,” she started, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “Where are we going?”

I turned left, my fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “It’s a place I bought for my wife.”

I didn’t need to look at her to know what face she was making—the slightly strangled one that screamed she was seconds away from either laughing or freaking out. I could feel her stiffen in the seat, see her hand gripping the side of the door like she was preparing to open it and throw herself out. Not that she was actually going to jump out, but she was definitely thinking about it.

I smothered a laugh. “Relax.”

“I swear to God, Blake⁠—”

I risked a glance at her. Big mistake. “Relax,” I repeated softly.

The streets blurred past, block by block. San Francisco was always too loud, but today, it was just background noise. We passed a row of shops—laundromats, a bodega, a pet grooming place with a broken neon sign—before I pulled into a small lot beside a building with blacked-out windows and a single sign above the door that read B’s Dance Studio in pink script.

I put the car in park. “This,” I said, nodding toward the studio, “is what I bought.”

Her mouth parted. Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“I’m not married,” I said before she could spiral further. “But if I ever were...it’d be you. And this would be yours.”

Beverly blinked at me, silent.

I reached into the glove compartment, pulled out the keys to the studio, and held them out to her. “I bought it a year ago, right after ChimeIn made its first decent profit. I was on my way to a meeting when I passed by and saw the For Lease sign hanging in the window. I didn’t even think. Just pulled over and signed the paperwork the next morning.”

She stared at the keys, unmoving.