The penthouse door shut behind you with a soft click. He didn’t chase you. Of course not — men like that didn’t chase. They offered drinks, compliments, silk sheets, and then slept like the world owed them for the privilege.

You adjusted your coat, lipstick slightly smudged, and hit the elevator button like it had personally offended you.

When it dinged open, you didn’t expect anyone to be there.

And yet—there he was.

Leaning casually against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, hair slightly messy like he'd run a hand through it a few too many times. That usual warm glint in his eyes flickered when he saw you, scanning your face for something you weren’t ready to give.

“Hey,” Richard said, soft.

You blinked. “What are you doing here?”

He gave a small shrug, stepping out just enough to close the distance. “Waiting.”

He didn’t ask. Didn’t push.

Just stood there — close, quiet, patient.

You felt his eyes on you like a weight you weren’t sure you wanted lifted.

The silence stretched, charged and intimate.

Then, slowly, he opened his arms.

And waited.