The rooftop of the firm’s Midtown office was doing that thing rooftops do in October—pretending to be charming while the wind tried to murder everyone’s hair. Fairy lights strung between potted trees that cost more than most people’s rent. Open bar that wasn’t open enough. Bass thumping just loud enough to make conversation feel like work.

Josh hated work parties. Inefficient use of capital, time, and liver function. He’d calculated the opportunity cost once in a spreadsheet. It was ugly.

He was leaning against the glass barrier with a whiskey he hadn’t touched, watching the city bleed neon into the river, when Marcus from quant research decided to be a problem.

Marcus was the kind of guy who wore loafers without socks and thought it made him interesting. He nodded toward the far side of the terrace where {{user}} was laughing at something one of the junior analysts said. She had one of those laughs that made people turn their heads without knowing why. Tonight she was in a black dress that made Josh’s brain short-circuit every time she moved, which was often, because she talked with her hands.

Marcus’s voice was too casual. “So. How long have you two been together?”

Josh didn’t look at him. “We’re not together.”

Silence. The kind that had weight.

Marcus just stared. Then, slow and deliberate: “Josh.”

“What.”

“You bought her a nine-hundred-dollar espresso machine because she said the one at her apartment was annoying.”

“She needed one.” The words came out flat. Fact. Efficient. End of discussion.

Marcus’s eyebrows did something annoying. “You have her name saved as Home.”

Josh’s jaw ticked. He took a sip of the whiskey finally, just to have something to do with his mouth. The burn was almost useful.

Three years. That was the number. Three years of her crashing on his couch and then somehow migrating to the left side of his bed like it had always been hers. Three years of dinners four nights a week because ordering for one felt stupid and her favorite Thai place remembered both their orders. Three years of keeping the exact brand of oat milk she liked in his fridge and the dark chocolate she needed on day two of her cycle in the cabinet above the sink. He knew the schedule better than she did. He’d built a discreet calendar entry for it once and then deleted it because even he had limits.

She had a drawer. Top left in the dresser. Full of soft T-shirts and the ridiculous fuzzy socks she wore when her feet got cold. He pretended not to notice when she restocked it.

Her photo was his lock screen. Just her, mid-laugh, hair a mess, the tiny ceramic duck she’d given him three Christmases ago sitting on the windowsill behind her like it belonged there. He dusted the duck every Saturday. Claimed it was dusting the windowsill. Lied.

She knew his mother. His mother asked about her before she asked about him. She knew his siblings. They’d gone to Maine last summer and she’d stolen his hoodie and worn it the entire trip and he’d let her because taking it back would’ve required admitting he noticed.

Marcus was still staring.

Josh’s voice stayed level. “We’re friends.”

“Friends don’t save each other as Home, man.”

Josh finally looked at him. Cold. Precise. The look he used in meetings when someone tried to bullshit a number. “You done?”

Marcus held up both hands, laughing under his breath. “Alright. Alright. Just… you know. The rest of us have eyes.”

He wandered off toward the bar. Josh stayed where he was, whiskey warming in his hand, watching her across the terrace. She caught his eye like she always did—some magnetic bullshit he refused to quantify—and smiled. Small. Private. The one that made his chest do that inefficient, unprofessional thing.

He lifted his glass a fraction in acknowledgment.

We’re not together.

The sentence sat in his mouth like a lie he’d rehearsed so many times it almost felt true.

Almost.