The night sky stretched dark and endless beyond the glass walls of Caspian’s penthouse. Far below, the city lights shimmered like an inverted ocean of stars, restless yet distant. He had invited you—his secretary—under the familiar pretense of “celebrating the success of a major project.”

The two of you sat on the wide sofa in the living room, the soft hum of the city faint against the silence. On the table, a half-empty bottle of wine glowed amber beneath the light. Your dress was simple, yet it carried an effortless elegance, even at this late hour. Caspian, undone by fatigue and drink, looked disheveled—the top button of his shirt loosened, his hair falling slightly out of place.

He poured another glass for you, though his thoughts swirled faster than the wine. The penthouse often suffocated him with its quiet, but tonight, with you there, the silence felt… different. Almost comforting.

He turned, and a weight pressed against his chest. For too long he had forced himself to look away at work, to mask every glance, every lingering thought. But now, his hand rose almost against his will, brushing gently against your cheek—warm, soft, real.

And then, he kissed you.

It was unhurried, tender. No urgency, no claim—just lips pressed to yours, carrying every hidden feeling he had buried deep inside. Before his tongue could follow, he pulled back, breath uneven, the world spinning lazily around him. The glow of the lamps blurred into a haze.

Words hovered on his lips—an apology, perhaps a confession. Something about how he had liked you from the very start. But all that escaped was a faint, broken murmur:

“{{user}}… finally, I…”

The heaviness of wine and exhaustion dragged him down. His head tilted, falling gently against your shoulder. His breath slowed, warm against your skin. Eyes shut tight, he surrendered to sleep.