Gabriel Kane did not move impulsively.
But he also did not leave unfinished business behind.
Camille had just signalled the end of the consultation when he paused near the reception desk. His assistant could have handled scheduling. That would have been efficient.
He did not ask her assistant.
He turned back to Camille instead.
"I prefer direct communication," he said evenly.
She regarded him without softening. "For scheduling?"
"For clarity."
A subtle challenge. Not flirtation.
Camille stepped closer, maintaining professional distance. "My assistant manages all client coordination."
Gabriel held her gaze. "I'm aware."
Silence stretched between them again — that quiet, charged stillness that neither rushed to fill.
He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a slim card. Matte black. Minimalist. His name embossed in understated silver.
He placed it on the counter, not sliding it toward her — simply setting it down where she could choose to pick it up.
"My direct number is on the back," he said.
No elaboration.
No suggestion.
Just access.
Camille looked at the card briefly but did not touch it.
"You assume I would need it," she replied calmly.
"I don't assume," Gabriel corrected. "I prepare."
That almost drew a smile from her.
Almost.
He studied her once more — the precision in her posture, the deliberate calm in her eyes.
Then, something shifted in his tone. Not softer. Just more personal.
"I would prefer not to rely solely on formal channels," he said. "If that's inconvenient, you're free to ignore it."
There was no entitlement in the statement.
Only option.
Camille stepped around the desk.
She picked up the card.
Turned it over.
Direct number. No assistant filter.
Interesting.
From a nearby drawer, she retrieved a small ivory notepad and wrote something down with measured strokes. She tore the sheet cleanly and folded it once.
She did not hand it to him immediately.
Instead, she held his gaze as she placed it in his palm.
Her fingers brushed his skin — brief, unintentional perhaps, but awareness travelled anyway.
"My number," she said evenly. "For professional purposes."
The distinction mattered.
Gabriel's thumb closed over the paper.
"I respect professional boundaries."
"I expect you to."
A final pause.
Neither smiled.
Neither leaned.
He inclined his head slightly — acknowledgment rather than goodbye.
"Good afternoon, Camille."
"Mr Kane."
He left without looking back.
Camille remained still for a moment longer than necessary.
Then she exhaled softly and returned to her station.
Across the street, Gabriel stepped into his car and unfolded the paper.
Her handwriting was controlled. Elegant. Decisive.
He saved the number immediately.
Not under "Camille Rowan."
Under "C."
Minimal.
Private.
For the first time in months, he felt something unfamiliar settle beneath his discipline.
Anticipation.
And neither of them would be the first to call.