Aiden pushed open the penthouse door, city lights spilling in behind him. His hair was tousled from hours of partying, his shirt slightly undone, his expression sharp and tired. He tossed his jacket onto a chair without looking.

Then he saw you.

You were on his sofa, legs crossed, swirling a half-filled glass of wine. The dim lighting and skyline behind you made the room feel colder… intentional.

You didn’t bother greeting him.

“So,” you said, voice steady, “did you have fun tonight?”

Aiden didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “It was work,” he said flatly.

You set your glass down, the quiet clink sharper than his tone.

“If you’re going to mess around,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “at least try not to let three different paparazzi nearly catch you.”

Aiden’s jaw flexed.

“They didn’t get anything usable.”

“That’s not the point.”

Silence stretched between you — tense, familiar. Aiden raked a hand through his hair, irritation slipping through his careful mask, before finally meeting your eyes.

“Fine,” he said, low. “What do you want me to do?”