The rooftop terrace was different at night.
During the day, it was just another corporate luxury — clean lines, potted ferns, a view meant to impress visiting clients. But after hours, when the city stretched out in gold and glass below, it felt… untamed. The kind of quiet that hummed instead of rested.
I hadn't planned to be up there.
The event downstairs — one of those quarterly "celebration mixers" that blurred into laughter, music, and too many glasses of wine poured by people pretending not to count — Created so much buzz, it was hard to think. And when the noise got too close, I slipped away. I hadn't noticed how much time I had actually spent up there.
The night air met me like a sigh — cool, soft, laced with the faint scent of rain. The city lights were scattered beneath me like stars that had fallen too far.
For a while, I just stood there, breathing.
And then I heard the door open.
The sound was small, but it cut through everything — the kind of sound that carried weight, even before you turned to see who it was.
He stepped out slowly.
Adrian.
His tie was loose, his hair slightly out of place — not messy, just… human. The crisp, composed lines of him softened under the dim rooftop lights. A faint flush touched his cheeks, and the way he moved told me he'd had more than one drink but less than enough to lose himself entirely.
He saw me and froze for half a heartbeat.
Then, quietly, "You're still here."
I smiled faintly. "So are you."
He gave a small, uneven laugh — the kind that tried to sound casual but couldn't quite find its footing. "Thought I'd get some air."
I turned back to the railing. "You came to the right place."
For a moment, we stood side by side, the wind threading between us. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. Just thick. Charged with the weight of everything we hadn't said.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the rail. "I didn't expect to see you at the mixer."
"I wasn't planning to stay long," I said. "But someone had to help with the reports."
"Always the responsible one," he murmured.
I glanced at him. "Someone has to be."
He smiled at that — a small, crooked thing that made something in my chest twist. "You sound like me."
"Maybe that's why you notice," I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes flicked toward me, sharp and searching, and for a second I wished I could take the words back. But then his expression softened — that distant, tired sort of softness that comes only when the masks slip.
"Maybe it is," he said quietly.
The wind tugged at his shirt sleeve, ruffling the corner of a cuff still perfectly buttoned. He looked out at the city again, the lights reflected in his eyes. "It's strange," he said after a while. "Being surrounded by people all the time and still feeling like you're standing in a room no one can see."
There was no bitterness in his tone. Just exhaustion — the kind that sounded like truth.
I swallowed. "You make it easy for people to think you're fine."
His lips quirked slightly. "And you make it hard to believe I am."
That made me smile — quiet, unsteady. "I didn't mean to."
"I know," he said, glancing at me. "That's what makes it worse."
Something shifted in the air then — not quite tension, not quite peace. Just… awareness. The kind that makes every breath feel too loud.
He turned away suddenly, running a hand through his hair. "God, I shouldn't have said that."
"It's okay," I said softly. "You don't have to apologize for being human."
He laughed under his breath. "Human. That's one way to put it."
When he looked back at me, his gaze lingered — a fraction longer than it should have. There was something unguarded there, something that made my heart skip, not because of what it meant, but because of what it could.
He took a step closer. Just one.
The air between us seemed to thin.
"I shouldn't be saying this," he murmured, voice lower now, "but every time I try to keep my distance, you find a way to undo it."
My breath caught. "Adrian…"
He shook his head, eyes closing briefly like he was trying to steady himself. "I know. I know."
For a long, suspended second, neither of us moved. The city hummed below — horns, laughter, the endless pulse of something alive and far away. And in the middle of it, there we were — too close, too quiet, too unsure.
Then he spoke again, softer. "When I came to check on you the other night… you were asleep."
I froze.
He didn't look at me — just at the skyline, voice steady but faintly slurred around the edges. "You had all those papers spread out. You were muttering something in your sleep." A small smile ghosted across his lips. "You talk when you dream, you know that?"
My throat went dry. "I was awake," I whispered.
That made him turn.
"You— what?"
I forced a breath. "When you brushed against my hand… I woke up. I just didn't move."
His expression flickered — confusion first, then disbelief, then something else entirely. Something quiet and aching.
The wind caught his jacket, pressing the fabric against him. His eyes — always so sharp, so composed — softened.
"Why didn't you say anything?" he asked.
"Because," I said, voice trembling slightly, "you looked like someone trying not to fall apart."
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at me like he was trying to decide whether to speak or breathe.
And then, before I could turn away, he moved.
It wasn't sudden. It wasn't planned. Just a slow, uncertain step forward — then another — until I could feel the warmth of him through the cold air.
"Amara…" he began, voice barely a whisper.
But my name on his tongue sounded like a confession.
When he leaned in, it wasn't deliberate. It was gravity.
The faint scent of his cologne — crisp, familiar — mixed with the faint trace of whiskey on his breath. His hand hesitated at my arm, fingers barely grazing fabric. For a heartbeat, we just stood there — too close, too aware, the world holding itself perfectly still.
And then — he kissed me.
It wasn't deep. Or sure. It was a slip — an accident made of hesitation and longing. A brush of lips that felt like a question neither of us was ready to ask.
The taste of it lingered — warmth, rain, something like regret.
He pulled back first. Just an inch. His breath was unsteady, his eyes wide — not with guilt, but shock. The kind that says this wasn't supposed to happen.
"I—" he started, voice rough. "I shouldn't—"
"I know," I whispered. "Me neither."
The words hung between us, fragile and trembling.
He took another step back, running a hand over his face like he could erase the moment.
The air around us had changed — heavy, electric. And somewhere deep down, I knew the space between what we were and what we could be had just cracked open.
He looked at me once more — really looked — and there it was again: that quiet, aching honesty that scared me more than anything.
Then he turned and walked toward the door.
I stood there long after he'd gone, the wind catching the edge of my hair, the city still glittering below. My lips still burned from the memory, and my heart — traitorous thing — beat like it didn't know which way to go.
And for the first time, I didn't try to convince myself it meant nothing.
Because maybe, in that one suspended second under the hum of the city, it did.