The glass door to the balcony was cracked open, just enough for the city breeze to slip through and carry the quiet clink of ice against crystal into the penthouse.

You hadn’t seen Bruce for the last hour—not since he excused himself from dinner halfway through without an explanation. You found the half-finished glass of wine he’d left behind, still sitting untouched beside your plate.

Now, you followed the trail of silence to the balcony.

He was there.

Suit jacket tossed over the back of the chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, collar undone. His tie hung loose around his neck, forgotten. One hand gripped a bottle of beer, the other rested on the railing as he leaned forward slightly, gaze fixed somewhere in the distance—where the city lights bled into the night.

You stepped out slowly, but he didn’t turn to acknowledge you.

He took another sip. His jaw clenched.

The wind tousled his hair a little, brushed against the tension in his shoulders, but he remained still. Not cold. Not distant. Just… buried. Like his mind was miles away.

You watched him quietly, waiting for something—an invitation to ask, a shift in his posture, a glance in your direction. But none came.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer a word about what had brought him out here, alone in the dark with a drink and too many thoughts.