Friday nights were sacred—reserved, as always, for him. That had been the deal from day one, a non-negotiable clause in your unspoken agreement. So, here you were, legs crossed under a white-linen tablecloth, seated across from the assistant D.A. at one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city—your wine glass never less than half full.

Andy poured with practiced ease, the pale gold of the vintage catching the low candlelight as it swirled into your glass. He didn't just look at you—he watched you, with a kind of indulgent attention that made the rest of the room fall away.

“Tell me, angel,” he said, voice warm and low, the corners of his mouth lifting in that familiar, knowing smile.

He set the bottle down, fingers grazing the neck like he’d just uncorked something far more dangerous than Chardonnay.

“How’s your week been?”

His hands folded together, elbows braced casually on the edge of the table—but his eyes? His eyes were all on you. Like you were the only thing worth looking at.