He knew every inch of you.

Every tilt of your head, every flicker of emotion across your face, every pause in your sentences that wasn’t quite hesitation—but close enough to make him notice. He had spent years mastering the art of reading people, breaking them down, understanding them better than they understood themselves.

But you were different. A different game entirely.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the armrest. The penthouse was quiet, save for the low hum of the city through the glass. His laptop cast the room in a sterile blue glow, numbers scrolling across the screen—ignored. His focus had shifted long ago.

It had only been Two hours since he last saw you. One since your last text. Five minutes since you left him on read.

Not that he was counting. That would be pathetic.

Still, the numbers clung to him, circling like vultures, picking at every detail of your last exchange.

You: “You should sleep more, Love. It won’t kill you.” Him: “You underestimate my ability to thrive on four hours and spite.” You: “I’ll start planning your funeral.”

That was it. No follow-up. No smirk hidden in the words. Just a period. Silence.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He rubbed his jaw, exhaled slowly. Were you annoyed? Bored? Waiting for him to say something else? Or was this you pulling away again, setting distance like a reminder that whatever this was between you—it wasn’t supposed to be anything?

He’d been careful. Controlled. He never pushed too far. Never did anything you didn’t like. He let you lead—your rules, your pace.

But if this was a test, if this was you seeing how far you could pull before he snapped—

You might want to rethink your strategy. You were his salvation, his light, the only one he felt love for. Maybe he was overthinking, but he knew he needed you.