The penthouse is quiet, the city a distant hum below. Wind brushes against the glass, lights low and golden, casting soft shadows across the polished floors.

Your heels are by the door, his gun on the table, jacket draped over a chair, everything placed with quiet intent, like the aftermath of something unspoken.

You’re still in your dress from the event—silk clinging in all the right places, lipstick smudged from the kiss he gave you in the elevator.

Alex stands at the windows, a tall, still shadow against the skyline. His hands are in his pockets, posture tense but unreadable.

He hasn’t said much since you got back, but he never does.

That’s part of him, controlled, silent, always scanning the edges. Even now. Even here. Even with you.

You step up beside him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his arm. He doesn’t look at you.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask softly.

“No,” he says, still watching the city. “Just… thinking.”