The silence between them was no longer empty.
It was loud. Heavy. Breathing.
Sheila sat on the edge of Atticus’s penthouse balcony, her legs pulled slightly to her chest while the city lights shimmered below like scattered stars that had fallen and broken across the streets. The cold night air brushed against her skin, but she didn’t move. She barely even blinked.
Behind her, the glass door slid open softly.
She didn’t turn.
She didn’t need to.
“Running away from me again?” Atticus’s voice came out low, almost tired, yet carrying that familiar teasing edge he always used when he was trying to hide something deeper.
“I’m not running,” Sheila replied quietly.
He stepped out onto the balcony, the soft glow from inside outlining his tall frame. He leaned casually against the rail, cros
