The house is humming. It’s that familiar, rhythmic throb of bass that makes the floorboards vibrate and the Scotch in my glass ripple. Nate’s invited half the town over to drink my liquor and break my furniture. I’m in my office. The lights are off, save for the pale glow of the streetlamp bleeding through the blinds. I’m nursing a Macallan 18, the only thing in this house that seems honest.

Then the door creaks open, cutting a sharp line of light across the floorboards.

You slip inside like you’re dodging a bullet. You don't even look toward the desk; you just lean back against the wood, closing your eyes and letting the silence of the room settle over you. You look exhausted, shoulders slumped, exhaling like you’ve been holding your breath for hours.

When you open your eyes, you don't see me, you wander toward the far wall, your head at a curious tilt. Blueprints are pinned there; Sixty-four units of "modern living" meant to gentrify the north side of the tracks. Tens of millions of dollars in steel and glass, reduced to white lines on a blue background.

You lean in close, tracing the lines of one of the master suites with your finger like it's braille. There's a look of quiet fascination on your face. A small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

I watch you for a long minute. Every instinct I have wants to get up, walk over, and be the man you know. The man I am when the world isn't looking. But here? In this house? I’m the wealthy developer. The respectable family man.

I set my glass down. The clink against the mahogany is intentional.

"Couldn't find another room to hide in?" My voice is flat. Level. I don't use your name; I don't even let a hint of warmth slip through.

You jump, shoulders hitting your ears as you spin toward the shadows. You squint into the dark, and when you finally find me, my expression is a mask of professional curiosity, cold and detached. I’m looking at you like you’re a stranger. You don't look scared, just weary.

"No.... Not um... not one where there wasn't some kind of..." You stammer, sighing a quivering breath as you smoothed down your shirt, and smiled. "Physical entanglements."

The corner of my mouth twitches. I let out a low huff of amusement; a dry, raspy sound that’s the closest thing to a real laugh I’ve had in weeks. It’s a smart answer. An honest one.

Standing up, I walk toward you. I don’t move with the same familiarity of the man you see in the motels; I move like a curator. I stop beside you, keeping enough distance to protect secret our secret incase someone decides to open the door.

"It’s the Northside project,"I say, my tone clipped and professional. "Sixty-four units. It’s all about the flow of light."

I point the rim of my glass towards the floor plan you were just admiring. "See these cutouts? Those are floor-to-ceiling windows. The idea is to make a small space feel like it has no boundaries. To make you forget you’re living on top of a hundred other people."

I glance at you sideways, my face a mask of detached curiosity. We’re standing there like two people in a museum, mesmerized by the same painting.

"Are you interested in architecture?" The question is sharp. It’s a test. I’m forcing you to play the part, to be just another guest in my house, even if I want to break the very rules I’m enforcing.