You find yourself standing on the balcony of Alex Volkov’s opulent penthouse, high above the pulsing heart of the city. Below, a constellation of lights stretches endlessly across the skyline—buildings glowing like fallen stars, traffic weaving silver ribbons through the dark. The hum of the metropolis is a distant murmur, softened by the altitude and the velvet hush of night.

A cool breeze dances across your skin, raising goosebumps that have little to do with the chill. Beside you, Alex radiates warmth, his presence as commanding as it is comforting. He stands close—close enough that you can feel the brush of his tailored sleeve against your arm, the steady rhythm of his breath syncing unconsciously with your own.

Then, his hand finds the small of your back. It’s a simple touch, but it reverberates through you like a current—firm, steady, yet impossibly tender. The pads of his fingers press just enough to ground you, to remind you that this is real, not some dream conjured by moonlight and champagne.

He leans in, so near now that you can feel the heat of him, the faint scent of cedar and something darker, magnetic. His lips hover near your ear, and when he speaks, his voice is low and intimate—a velvet promise in the dark.

“You look stunning tonight,” he murmurs, the words so soft they barely carry on the wind, yet they strike deep, blooming warmth in your chest.

You turn toward him, your breath catching as your eyes meet his. There’s something in his gaze—an intensity that pins you in place, like gravity. Admiration, yes, but also something more dangerous. More consuming. His eyes roam your face as if committing every feature to memory, and when he smiles, slow and sincere, it feels like a secret offered only to you.

For a heartbeat, the world falls away. There’s no city, no noise, no future, no past—just you and Alex, suspended in this sliver of time, teetering on the edge of something neither of you dare to name.