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The air in the penthouse is thick with something unspoken, stretching between us like an invisible wire pulled tight, ready to snap.
Michael lounges on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. The city lights cast sharp shadows against his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the lazy smirk playing at his lips.
A cup of untouched tea sits on the table in front of him.
I step out of my room, my posture controlled, my expression unreadable.
Michael doesn't look at me immediately. He gazes out the window, eyes tracing the skyline as if lost in thought. But I know better. Michael is never lost in thought.
He's always aware. Always calculating.
When he finally turns, his smirk deepens. He knows I've been watching him.
"Took you long enough," he says, voice smooth, amused.
I don't smile. "Got distracted."