The city pressed against the glass.
Even thirty floors up, I could hear it, horns bleeding into one another, a siren dragging its note across blocks, the low hum of power lines feeding towers that refused to dim.
New York wasn’t a place. It was pressure. And this morning, it pressed harder than usual.
I stood at the window, sleeves rolled, collar open, my reflection cut into pieces by the pane. Behind me, the sheets shifted. Amber stirred, her voice still heavy with sleep.
Last night still lingered on my skin, too close, too quiet. I told myself it didn’t matter, that she didn’t. But the lie hadn’t faded with the dawn.
I didn’t turn. My eyes stayed fixed on the skyline, on the restless movement below that reminded me why I’d brought her here.
“Ready for your surprise,” I said, voice
