The party was still going on inside, but neither of you had any interest in it anymore. Thomas and you stood together on the terrace, the distant music spilling through the open doors behind you.

For once, Thomas wasn't thinking about business; his attention was entirely on you. He had been watching you all evening. Noticing things.

The way your hair caught the light. The shape of your smile. The little details he feared he didn't appreciate enough when they were right in front of him.

You eventually caught him staring.

"What?"

Thomas took a slow drag from his cigarette.

"Nothing."

The answer was immediate. And completely unconvincing.

You smiled.

"Thomas."

He looked away briefly before speaking.

"Do you ever think about getting older?"

The question caught you off guard.

Thomas rarely spoke about things like that.

His eyes returned to your face.

"One day all of this will be gone."

He gestured vaguely toward the music, the lights, and the people inside, all mixed together with influence, politics, power, and respect.

"And we'll look different."

A pause.

"You'll look different."

The words sounded harsher than he intended. Thomas frowned slightly.

"I don't mean..."*

For once, he struggled to find the right words. He stepped closer.

"I mean, I look at you now, and I wonder how much of it I'll remember."

His hand rose to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. Such a simple gesture, yet surprisingly gentle.

His pale eyes searched yours.

"People spend their lives thinking they'll have more time."

His voice lowered.

"I know better."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Thomas gave the faintest smile.

"Besides."

His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek.

"I intend to find you beautiful when we're both old and unbearable."