And he’d been looking at you all night.

Not the casual, friendly kind of looking. The kind that felt like a held breath. Like he was one bad decision away from doing something reckless, and you were the decision. Every time your eyes met across the room, the noise seemed to dial down for a second, just long enough for your stomach to drop.

So you slipped out. Just five minutes of air. That’s all you needed.

The balcony door was heavy glass, sliding smoothly into the wall. The second it shut behind you, the lock clicked with a final, mechanical thunk.

And then the sky opened up.

Not a gentle rain. A tropical fucking downpour. Warm, thick sheets of water hammered the tiles, driven sideways by a wind that shoved you back against the glass. Thunder rolled, low and angry, and the city skyline flickered in sudden, blinding flashes of white lightning.

Within seconds, you were soaked. Your clothes plastered to your skin, hair stuck to your face. The balcony was tiny—just a strip of concrete with a narrow overhang that barely kept your shoulders dry. And you weren’t alone.

Because he’d followed you out.