The night settled like a heavy blanket over the city, rain pattering softly against the windows of Sheila’s apartment. She sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop open but forgotten. Her mind wasn’t on the numbers, the analysis, or even the press conference that had ended hours ago—it was on Atticus.
He had stayed for just a moment after the conference, lingering in the doorway with that inscrutable expression, that tension coiled tight like a spring. Then he had leaned in, briefly brushing his lips against hers—a quick, almost hesitant kiss—but it carried the weight of everything that had been unspoken between them.
Sheila hadn’t pulled away, not immediately. She had felt it, deep and unsettling, the pull of him, the draw of his presence, and the undeniable recognition that they were
