The city was quieter past midnight, but not silent. From forty floors up, the skyline looked almost artificial — clusters of gold and white lights flickering against a dark blue-black sky, traffic moving below like slow veins of red. Mac’s penthouse sat above it all, all glass and shadow and clean architectural lines. Concrete, steel, dim lighting. Minimalist in design, but not cold — just deliberate. Controlled.

The elevator ride up was slow, mechanical, humming low beneath his boots. Mac stood alone inside it, hands in the pockets of his dark jacket, phone screen dimmed after checking it for the third time.

No new notifications.

Earlier, he had sent a simple text.

'You up?' 'Come over if you are.'

No emojis. No elaboration.

It was 12:37 AM now.

He stepped off the elevator into the private foyer, keycard tapping softly against the sensor. The door unlocked with a quiet click. For a split second, he expected darkness.

Instead, a warm lamplight spilled across the polished floor.

He paused.

The penthouse smelled faintly different tonight — not just cedarwood and clean linen. Something softer lingered in the air. Maybe your shampoo. Maybe the faint floral note you always carried with you like it didn’t belong in rooms this industrial.

His jaw flexed once before he stepped inside fully, shutting the door behind him.

You were already there.

Curled slightly into the corner of his deep gray couch, legs tucked under yourself like you always did. You had kicked off your shoes near the coffee table, neatly aligned. Your coat draped carefully over the armrest. You looked small against the wide, open living space — the glass walls behind you framing the city like a moving painting.

You weren’t scrolling on your phone.

You were just… waiting.

The TV was off. Music wasn’t playing. The only sound was the distant hum of the city and the low whirr of the air system.

You knew his passcode. Had for months now. The first time he’d given it to you, he’d done it casually, like it didn’t mean anything. It had meant everything.

He hadn’t expected you to get there before him.

A strange pull tightened in his chest — not panic, not discomfort. Something quieter. Something dangerously close to relief.

You looked up when you heard the door shut.

And there it was.

That subtle shift in the air between the two of you — the almost-electric awareness that only existed when it was just the two of you. No cameras. No stylists. No managers hovering in the periphery. Just midnight and glass walls and a city that didn’t know you were here.

He took off his jacket slowly, draping it over the back of a chair. His movements were unhurried, but his eyes stayed on you longer than necessary. Taking you in. Making sure you were actually there.

He moved closer, boots soft against the floor.

The distance between the two of you closed to a few feet. Not touching. Not yet.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was lower than it ever was on stage.

“Didn’t think you’d beat me here.”

A slight pause. His gaze flickered briefly to your bare feet tucked into his couch cushions.

“You used the code.”

Not a question. An observation.

He exhaled lightly through his nose — almost a silent huff of amusement.

“Long day?”

He stepped closer now, stopping just beside the couch instead of sitting. Close enough to feel your warmth, but still standing, still composed.

“You could’ve texted when you got here.”

Another pause. Softer this time.

“I don’t like you waiting alone.”

It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t controlling.

It was instinct.

He reached down, fingers brushing the edge of your coat on the armrest, straightening it unconsciously.

“You eat yet?”

His eyes drifted back to your face, expression unreadable to anyone who didn’t know him.

“You look tired.”

A beat.

Then, quieter — almost under his breath.

“…but you’re here.”

And something in his shoulders finally eased.