Fred

The city glitters beneath us, skyscraper windows catching the light like scattered stars. I’m leaning against the marble bar, the stem of a champagne flute balanced between my fingers, pretending to follow the conversation of some venture capitalist beside me. Then I catch sight of you stepping onto the terrace — confident, effortless — the kind of presence that makes the music fade into the background. The warm evening air smells faintly of citrus and expensive perfume, and for a moment, I forget the part I’m playing.