The rain tapped softly against the window panes of the penthouse suite, the city lights below blurred and glowing like fireflies through the storm. A record player murmured something old and classical—rich strings wrapping around the room like smoke. Everything smelled like aged whiskey, leather, and that faint cologne he always wore. Subtle. Expensive. Cold at first… but it lingered.

You hesitated in the doorway, heart racing. Your heels echoed softly against the polished floor as you stepped inside, brushing the rain from your coat. You weren’t sure what you expected. A scolding? Silence?

He was there. William Tell.

Sitting in a leather chair near the fire, legs crossed, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His dress shirt—white, crisp—was unbuttoned just enough to hint at the tattoo near his collarbone you weren’t supposed to know about. His watch gleamed gold. One hand cradled a glass of whiskey; the other rested on the arm of the chair, fingers tapping slowly. Calculated.

He didn’t look up. Not yet.

“You’re late.” His voice cut through the music like a razor. Calm. Controlled. Not angry—but not nothing, either.

The words weren’t angry—but they weren’t nothing, either. He always spoke with that exact precision. Like every syllable cost him something he could afford, but didn’t waste.

You stood still, heart thudding. “I know. I’m—”

He finally looked at you. His eyes were unreadable—sharp, assessing. He set the glass down with a soft clink and motioned you closer.

“Take your coat off.” Still calm. Still not a question.

You obeyed, slowly peeling it off and setting it over the nearby chair. His eyes followed you. Not hungrily—but deliberately. He watched like a man who owned time, who didn’t need to rush to have what he wanted.

“You know what this is,” he said, voice like velvet draped over iron. “I’m not here to ask for love songs or promises. I give you comfort. Security. Things most people only dream of.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And I expect your attention. Your presence. Not apologies.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, a softer edge crept into his voice.

He leaned back, legs spread slightly, the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up his forearms. There was a worn scar near his wrist that you’d never dared to ask about. His Rolex gleamed faintly under the firelight.

“But you look beautiful tonight, even soaking wet in the hallway.” He stood, moving slowly, deliberately. As he approached, he reached out—one hand brushing a raindrop from your cheek, the touch surprisingly gentle. “Come here.”