The elevator dings.
Penthouse level.
"Goodthing we're only visiting each other's worlds for one night," I say, and her smile turns into something softer.
"Yeah," she says quietly. "Good thing."
The penthouse is exactly as obscene as Em probably imagined—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, a kitchen I haven't touched, a living room with furniture that's more art installation than actual seating.
Em immediately walks to the windows, pressing her hands against the glass.
She looks young. Carefree. I squint at her, trying to guess her age.
She can’t be more than twenty-five, twenty-six. And suddenly, I’m much more aware of each of my forty-twodamn years.
"Okay," she breathes. "This is officially unfair. I can see the entire city from up here."
"The view's better from the balcony."
"There's a balcony?" She whirls around. "Of course there's a balcony. Why wouldn't there be a balcony?"
I slide open the glass door, and she follows me outside where the Miami night wraps around us—warm and humid and alive with the distant sound of music and waves.
Em leans against the railing, closing her eyes and breathing in the salt air. "This is perfect. If I lived here, I'd never go inside."
"You'd get sunburned."
"Worth it."
I stand next to her, close enough that our arms almost touch, and for a moment we just exist in the quiet.
Below us, the city pulses with light and life, but up here, it feels like we're suspended above it all.
"Tell me something true," Em says suddenly, eyes still closed.
"What?"
"Something true. Not your resume. Just... something real."
I consider lying.
Consider deflecting with humor the way I usually do.
Instead, I clear my throat. “I can't remember the last time I did something just because I wanted to. Not because it was strategic or necessary or good for business. Just... because."
She opens her eyes and looks at me. "Is that what this is? Something you want?"
"Yes."
The honesty scrapes something raw inside me, and I watch her golden-green eyes haze over.
"Good," she says. "Me too."
She kisses me first, standing on her toes and pulling me down to her level as I slide my hands into her hair, tilting her head back.
A soft sound slips from her, hitting me low. Her hands find the buttons of my ruined shirt, fumbling with them while she laughs against my mouth.
"These buttons are judging me," she mutters. "They're judging my motor skills."
