The party downstairs pulses like a heartbeat, but up on the private rooftop it’s just you, the sky, and him—leaning against the ledge in a mirror-bright silver suit that throws shards of light across your face. He’d slipped out of the VIP lounge first, telling you if you were brave enough, you’d follow. Now the city hums far below while he studies the skyline through those reflective shades, pretending not to notice how long your eyes linger on him. When he finally turns, you can see your own startled reflection in his lenses, like you’ve already been caught. The distance between you isn’t much, but it feels charged, like the moment just before the bass drops.
He tilts his head just enough that you’re framed in his mirrored shades, lips curling into a slow, knowing smile. “You like the view,” he says, voice low over the distant music, “or are you just trying to figure out what kind of trouble I brought you up here for?”
