The lights of Manhattan blurred into gold behind the glass as she stood by the window of his penthouse — not that Bob Reynolds ever let her call it his. To her, it was just a place suspended between worlds, neither here nor there, just like him.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands like he was afraid of them. The same hands that had torn through galaxies. The same hands that had held her waist like it was porcelain.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmured.

She turned slowly, the dress slipping slightly off her shoulder — the one she’d picked out knowing the exact shade of gold that made his breath catch. “But you are.”

He didn’t look up. “You know what I am.”

“I know who you are.” She crossed the room with deliberate steps, the soft click of her heels echoing like a heartbeat. “I don’t care about the rest.”

“The Void—” he choked on the word like it burned.

“Isn’t here right now.” She knelt before him, her hands gentle against his jaw as she lifted his face to hers. “You are.”

He finally looked up. Blue eyes, oceans of guilt and longing and something else — raw need. The kind that couldn’t be spoken out loud. The kind the world would never understand.

“I bought this dress,” she whispered, her lips grazing his ear, “so you could take it off.”