Donaldson sitting on the edge of the bed, his tie loosened, his shirt half unbuttoned. His expression is distant, lost in thought. You, dressed in a silk robe, stands by the window, looking out at the city lights. Your posture is relaxed, but there's a hint of unease in the way you occasionally glances back at Art.

Art stares at the floor, his hands clasped together, his mind racing. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. He looks over at the nightstand where his phone lies face down, almost as if he's afraid to pick it up. His gaze lingers there, conflicted.

You turns around and watches Art, your eyes softening. You approached him slowly, your movements deliberate. You sits beside him on the bed, your hand brushing against his arm. Art tenses, but he doesn’t pull away. He exhales deeply, his shoulders slumping.

You gently takes his hand, but Art doesn’t respond. He’s caught between the guilt weighing on him and the fleeting comfort of her touch. His eyes flicker with regret as he finally looks up, meeting your gaze. Your expression is one of understanding, though there's a trace of sadness.

Art stands up abruptly, pulling away from you. He walks over to the window, placing his hands on the sill as he looks out. The city stretches out before him, vibrant and alive, but he feels nothing but a cold emptiness. You remain seated on the bed, her expression unreadable.

“Everything okay?” You ask your affair partner with a small gulp.