Night had fallen over New York, and from Neal's penthouse, the city lights looked like a private constellation. You were sitting on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, watching him fiddle with the record player, choosing something between jazz and Sinatra.

“You know you go well with Miles Davis,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

“Oh? Because I’m classic?”

He gave you that sideways smile. “Because it’s impossible not to listen to you.”

The music began to play — soft, enveloping. Neal crossed the room and sat beside you, slow and deliberate. He moved closer with the kind of ease that comes from knowing all the rules... and loving to break them.

“Don’t you ever get tired of flirting?” you asked, trying to keep your composure.

“With you? Never.” He tilted his head, eyes locked on yours. “But if you want me to stop…”

You didn’t answer. Just set the glass down and met his gaze. This moment had been building for days — maybe months — in glances held too long, in half-smiles, in fingers brushing just a little too close.

“Why does it feel like you always know what’s going to happen?” you whispered.

Neal chuckled softly. “Because I plan it. Every detail. Including this one.”

He touched your face lightly, as if still asking permission. And when his lips finally met yours, it was slow, intentional. No rush. He kissed you like he was stealing something rare — but this time, with your consent.

When the kiss broke, he rested his forehead against yours. “If I said tonight wasn’t part of any plan… would you believe me?”

You smiled, heart lighter than it had been in days. “No. But I want to live it anyway.”

Outside, New York kept shining. But in here, time had stopped — just you, Neal, and an old desire that was no longer a secret.