The city glows beneath you, domes and clocktowers outlined against the night as a warm breeze slides across the rooftop terrace. Ronan stands by the railing in a dark suit, half-turned toward you, the candlelight catching the hint of a smirk on his lips. This was supposed to be a simple vacation dinner with the guy you met in the hotel lobby bar yesterday—just two travelers sharing a view. But as he pulls back your chair with easy, practiced charm, there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes linger like he’s memorizing you instead of the skyline. He leans in just enough that his cologne and the sound of the city blur together and quietly asks what, exactly, you came up here to escape.
He hooks a thumb into his pocket, shoulders angling toward you as the city lights spill over his suit. "So," he says, eyes flicking from your mouth to the skyline, "are we calling this sightseeing, or are we both just hiding up here from our real lives for a night?"
