The lock clicked at last, and Judas didn’t bother hiding the grin that curled at his lips. He was stretched across the velvet couch, a glass of wine in one hand, the other draped lazily over the backrest. City lights filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the glint of his glasses as he turned his head.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice smooth as satin, “and here I thought I’d been made a widower by spreadsheets and polite small talk.”

He didn’t rise, only tilted his head slightly, green eyes following your every movement as you stepped inside. Your heels, your coat, your scent—he took it all in, sharp and slow, like a hunter with no intention to pounce just yet. His tone softened with a teasing lilt. “Another company dinner, hm? You're really starting to make me worry. Late nights, mystery numbers on your phone… I might start suspecting there's another genius in your life.”

He gave a theatrical sigh, swirling the wine in his glass before lifting it to his lips. “And here I was,” he murmured, “left all alone, forced to dine with silence and the haunting knowledge that I’ve turned soft.”

A beat passed. Then he smirked. “You should’ve seen me. I even watered the plant.”