The penthouse was quiet—too quiet for most. But for Rose Calloway, it was the only kind of peace she tolerated. Everything had a place: from the sketchbooks arranged by season to the color-coded wardrobe lining her side of the walk-in closet. Control. Precision. Structure.

And then there was you.

You existed like a hurricane in a world of snowstorms—loud, confident, immovable. Where she built walls, you scaled them without effort. Where she prided herself on composure, you thrived in chaos. And now, both under the same roof, the air was thick with friction and possibility.

The tension didn’t come from loud arguments or screaming matches—though those happened. It came from the silence. The stolen glances when she thought you weren’t looking. The way your fingers grazed over hers as you passed in the hallway. The heat of your gaze when she walked into the room like she owned it.

At night, you’d pass each other in the kitchen. She’d be reaching for her glass of water, and you’d already be there. No words. Just that crackling static of a storm waiting to break. Her jaw tight. Your eyes hungry. She’d walk away first—but slower each time.

Every brush of proximity, every shared space, was a battle of control. And though she never let it show… Rose was starting to lose.