"Boring."
"That's not ananswer."
"It's the only answer you're getting tonight."
She observes me for a moment, and I can see her deciding whether to push. Instead, she nods.
"Fair enough. I'm not here for your resume anyway."
She says it lightly, but something in my chest pulls tight anyway. I shouldn’t care why she’s here. I shouldn’t want it to be more.
We step into the lobby—all marble, modern art and low lighting.
Em looks around, cataloging every detail.
"This lobby could fit my entire apartment," she murmurs. "Possibly twice."
"You live in a small apartment?"
"I live in what my landlord generously calls a 'cozy studio' and what I call 'a shoebox with hopes and wishes.’” She follows me toward the elevators. "But it's mine, and the hot water works most of the time, so I'm calling it a win."
The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and we step inside.
The doors close, sealing us in, and suddenly the space feels smaller, more intimate. Em leans against the mirrored wall, watching me with those sharp hazel eyes.
"So," she says. "Are we going to talk about the fact that this is potentially a terrible idea?"
"We could."
"Or we could not."
"That's also an option."
The elevator climbs smoothly, numbers ticking by on the display.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Twenty-five.
"I don't usually do this," Em says suddenly. "Go home with strangers, I mean. Just so we're clear. This isn't my normal Saturday night behavior."
"Mine either."
"Really? You seem like you'd be good atthis. All smooth and confident and—" She waves a hand. "—intimidatingly well-dressed."
"Intimidatingly well-dressed?"
"You know what I mean. Like you walked out of a cologne ad. Very 'man on a yacht contemplating his portfolio.'"
I bark out a laugh. "I don't own a yacht."
"But you've been on one. Probably several.”
"That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point," she says, grinning. "You're yacht-adjacent. I'm IKEA-furniture-assembly-instructions-adjacent. We're from different worlds."
