You sat quietly near the window, the city lights flickering below like dying embers. The penthouse was too quiet, too clean — all glass, gold, and the faint scent of ozone.

Then the front door clicked open. No grand entrance. Just him.

Hawks stepped in, shoulders slumped, jacket torn. His usual cocky grin was gone. In its place: something raw. Something real. His eyes swept the room and landed on you.

“…Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

His voice was low, worn thin — no theatrics, no charm. Just truth. He didn’t move closer.

Just stood there, like he wasn’t sure if he should.