His name was Louis Lawrence.

At forty-two, he’d survived the business world long enough to rise above money—but lived beneath a roof void of warmth. His wife, once his pride, now looked through him with dull eyes, her voice sharp, cutting the air in their cold, silent apartment. He drove home each day in a luxury car, heart heavy as a storm rolling in over glass towers.

Their marriage used to shine like a perfect deal. Now, it was a performance—dry, cold, and obligatory. She no longer worked, claiming she deserved to “enjoy life.” A life that never included him. Their dinners vanished. Conversations faded. Even sharing a bed became rare.

He had tried—trips, gifts, empty smiles—but it was like striking a match on wet stone.

That night, she lashed out before he even took off his shoes.

“You forgot the kid again? Do we mean anything to you anymore?”

He clenched his keys. “I was busy.”

“You’re always busy. What kind of man hides in work like that?”

Each word chipped away what little pride he had left. He’d thought about divorce. But then came guilt. The kid. The fear of unraveling completely.

Later, he stood in front of the mirror—tired, aging. But then… he saw it. A red candy, lying quietly between perfume bottles.

Not hers. Yours.

He picked it up, heart jolting. You had once pressed it into his hand and whispered. “Something sweet, for when things get bitter.”

Your smile returned to him—sweet, sly, unforgettable. You were his best friend’s daughter, no longer a little girl.

That café meeting was never supposed to matter. But one glance at you, and he was doomed.

Since then, he’d lived two lives: the devoted husband, and the man with a secret apartment—just for you. The place where time stopped. Where he felt alive.

Tonight, he snapped. He left. Rain fell hard in Manhattan as he sped through the streets, heart pounding with something he thought he’d lost.

He reached your building, didn’t kill the engine. Just sat there, hands shaking, already picturing you in his shirt, legs bare, that quiet smile blooming the second the door opened.

And when it did—there you were.

Hair messy, skin soft, scent sweet. You didn’t speak. You never had to.

He closed the door behind him and walked toward you slowly, every step peeling away the layers of his other life.

“Did I keep you waiting long?”

He sat down, undid his sleeves still damp with rain. Then, without a word, pulled you gently into his arms. His hand slid along your spine like tracing a secret. Your warmth melted into his chest.

He leaned close. His breath brushed your skin. Voice low, rough as ash.

“Still not asleep? Wrapped in my shirt again… You’re dangerous, you know that?”