Around midnight, just when I'm finally drifting off to sleep, my phone buzzes. I sit up, adrenaline rushing through my veins. Another text from Elena: I'm at the Skyline Bar. Join me or don't—you decide.
I glance at the time. This is a terrible idea. But I go anyway. The city streets are quiet as I drive, headlights slicing through darkness. My hands grip the wheel too tight.
When I arrive, Elena's perched at a corner table, swirling a half-empty martini. She looks up, eyes gleaming with relief—or is it triumph? "I didn't think you'd come."
"Neither did I," I admit, sliding into the seat across from her. My gaze flicks to the other patrons—only a few scattered couples, none familiar. "We shouldn't do this."
She sighs, the overhead light catching a hint of sadness in her expression. "Lucas, I'm tired of always doing what's expected. Aren't you?"
I open my mouth to argue, but her question hits me square in the chest. Yes. But I can't say that. Instead, I hesitate, reaching for her glass. My fingers brush hers. A spark. A warning. We share a silent moment that vibrates with possibility—and danger.