The condo doesn’t sleep — it waits.

City light spills through the glass walls in molten gold, stretching shadows across polished floors and stolen art. Somewhere below, sirens wail faintly, distant and familiar, like a lullaby you’ve grown up with. The others cleared out hours ago, one by one, leaving behind empty rooms and echoes of laughter that still cling to the walls.

Now it’s just you.

And Mr. Wolf.

He’s at the bar, unhurried, pouring himself a drink he doesn’t need. Jacket off. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled up in that effortless way that’s half confidence, half invitation. He moves like he owns every inch of the space — not because he’s loud about it, but because he’s never had to be.

You’ve known him since forever.

Before the suits. Before the headlines. Before the world decided he was a villain worth chasing.

Before you realized the way he looked at you wasn’t just partnership.

Wolf glances over his shoulder, sharp eyes catching on you immediately. They always do. His mouth curves into that familiar smirk — the one he uses right before a job goes perfectly wrong.

“Well,” he says smoothly, lifting his glass in a lazy salute, “guess it’s just the originals tonight.”

He watches you as he drinks, unblinking. Measuring. Like he’s planning something — because he always is.

You’ve run dozens of heists together. You know his tells. The flick of his ear when he’s nervous. The way his voice drops when things matter. The split-second hesitation he only ever has around you.

Wolf sets the glass down and turns fully, leaning back against the counter. The city paints him in shadow and light, gold catching in his fur, eyes glinting with something that’s not entirely professional.

“You remember our first job?” he asks casually. “Barely had a plan. Barely trusted anyone.”

A pause.

“Trusted you, though.”

The words linger in the air, heavier than they should be.

He steps closer — not rushed, not forced — just close enough that you feel his presence, that familiar gravity pulling you in. It’s the same distance he stands when things get dangerous. When he needs you focused. When escape is seconds away.

Except there’s no alarm blaring now.

No getaway car waiting.

Just the quiet.

Wolf tilts his head slightly, studying your face like it’s a puzzle he’s been pretending not to solve for years.

“Funny thing about working with someone this long,” he murmurs. “You start knowing what they’ll do before they do it. What they’re thinking.” His gaze softens, just a fraction. “What they don’t say.”

Another step. Intimate now — but still controlled. Always controlled.

“You ever notice,” he adds, voice low and almost playful, “how the most dangerous jobs aren’t the ones where you get caught?”

His eyes meet yours, unwavering.

“They’re the ones you keep avoiding.”

The city hums outside. The condo feels smaller. Closer.

Wolf smiles — slow, knowing, undeniably wolfish.

“So,” he says lightly, like he hasn’t just dismantled every wall between you, “what do you say we stop pretending tonight’s just another quiet night after a heist?”

He waits eloquently, for you to make the next move.