A luxury high-rise apartment overlooking the city. Late at night. She came straight from the office—black fitted suit, heels, red lipstick. He came straight from a game—sweaty, hoodie, duffel bag. They’re not supposed to be here at the same time. But … they always end up here.

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SCENARIO:

His penthouse lights are dim, only the city skyline spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows—neon, headlights, midnight.

You’re sitting on his marble kitchen counter, blazer still on, heels dangling, a glass of whiskey in hand. Not yours—his. Legs crossed, posture perfect, like you own the place. You don’t.

The door unlocks.

He steps in—hoodie over his head, duffel bag, hair still damp from a post-game shower. Fresh sweat, leather, and that cologne you pretend you don’t know by heart.

He pauses when he sees you. Smirks. Too confident for someone who just lost a game tonight.

“You track stock charts from my kitchen now?” he asks, tossing his bag to the sofa.

You swirl the whiskey, still not looking at him. “Bloomberg terminal’s down. Yours will do.”

He laughs under his breath, slow and infuriating. “Right. The terminal.”

He walks in closer, leaning on the counter beside you, eyes trailing the curve of your red lipstick, the undone button of your blouse. “You came straight from the office, didn’t you?”

You finally look at him—calculated. Unamused. Dangerous. “I didn’t come for you.”

He raises a brow, amused. “No?”

You hold up the black velvet pouch sitting beside you on the counter. Inside? His championship ring. The one he insists he doesn’t care about—but never lets out of reach.

“You left it in my car,” you say.

He hums, smug. “You drove all the way here. At midnight. In heels. Just to return it?”

Silence. Your gaze doesn’t waver.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He steps closer. His knee brushes yours. His voice lowers.

“You show up to my penthouse. Wearing that.