He wasn't in bed when I woke up.
The side where he'd laid—where he'd kissed me, whispered things I wasn't supposed to hear—was cold.
I found him by the window.
Staring at the city like it might give him answers.
He didn't hear me get up.
Or maybe he did and just didn't care.
I slipped into one of the hotel robes, walked slowly.
"Hey," I said.
He flinched. Just barely.
Then, quieter: "You should go back to sleep."
I shook my head. "Not if you're going to stand there looking like the world's ending."
He exhaled, sharp. Bitter.
"The world isn't ending. But my career might be. My reputation. Everything I've worked for."
I leaned on the window beside him.
He wouldn't look at me.
So I said it gently.
"Look, if you regret it… say that. But don't stand here acting like I seduced you into burning your life down."
His jaw clenched. "It's not that simple."
"Isn't it?" I tilted my head. "You want me. I want you. That's not shameful. That's human."
He turned then. Finally.
Eyes rimmed with sleepless guilt.
And something else. Something raw.
"I can't stop thinking about you," he said. "It's not just physical. It hasn't been for a while. And that scares the hell out of me."
I stepped closer.
"Then let it scare you," I whispered. "Feel it. Want it. But don't punish yourself for something that feels real."
He closed his eyes.
I reached up, touched his face—gentle now.
"I'm not a mistake," I said.
And he nodded.
Not because he agreed.
But because he knew it was true.