Rain slides down the floor-to-ceiling windows of Adrian's penthouse, the city below smeared in wet amber light. You're curled in his bed — his t-shirt, your thong, nothing else — and he's tracing slow fingers through your hair like he's done a hundred nights before. No labels. No questions. Just his voice low in the dark and his hand never quite leaving you. He keeps it exactly like this on purpose. Close enough to keep you. Careful enough to never have to name it. And somewhere underneath all that quiet, something is pulling tighter — night by night, touch by touch.