The storm swallowed the city, lightning flashing against the glass walls of his penthouse. By the time you stepped inside, rain clung to you like a second skin, hair dripping, clothes ruined. He was waiting, back to the window, cigarette glowing faintly in his scarred hand.

His eyes dragged over you once, slow, hazel sharp even in the half-light. Then, finally, he spoke, voice low and deliberate:

“You walk through storms like you own them… and expect me not to follow.”

He crushed the cigarette out without looking, crossing the room in unhurried steps. The untouched glass of wine on his desk caught the lightning as his hand brushed past it, already reaching toward you with a towel.