In which midnight texts lead to inevitable collisions, and denial crumbles beneath desire.
-Max-
At 2:17 a.m., Max stepped out of Sterling Tower into the blue-black hush of early morning Manhattan.
She barely remembered crossing the lobby—her mind still locked on the message glowing on her phone:
Max: I miss you.
Aurelia: Prove it.
Three words. That's all it took to undo every boundary she'd built.
Still in her rumpled boardroom suit, she stepped into the cool night air. Her car waited. She slid into the back seat, gave Aurelia's address, and said nothing else.
No plan. No strategy. Just the pull she couldn't fight anymore.
As the city lights blurred by, Max didn't think about consequences. She thought about Aurelia. And how nothing—business, legacy, pride—had been enough to keep her away.
And then:
Aurelia: I'm heading home. 31 Mercer. Penthouse.
No hesitation. No games left to play.
Max slid into the back of her car and gave the address without looking up. Mercer Street. SoHo. Aurelia's loft. The place she'd only been to once—months ago, before everything got too complicated to touch.
The car pulled away from the steel canyons of Midtown and slipped into the winding arteries of lower Manhattan. Max sat back, unblinking, watching the city turn looser, older, more textured as they moved downtown.
SoHo at night looked like a memory. Wet cobblestone shimmered beneath the amber streetlights. Iron balconies leaned out from brick façades. Storefronts slept behind sleek metal gates, and the scent of old rain, car exhaust, and faint gardenia from some invisible rooftop made the air feel alive.
Max's reflection stared back at her from the car window—shoulders squared in her wrinkled suit, jaw set, hair coming undone from the perfect twist she'd worn to yesterday's board meeting.
She didn't fix it.
The car pulled to a quiet stop in front of a converted warehouse—black-trimmed windows glowing faintly on the top floor. She recognized it even in the dark. The place Aurelia had remade in her own image: elegant, modern, rebellious.
Max stepped out, her heels clicking against wet stone, and crossed to the understated glass awning of the entrance. A single brass panel glinted beside the door.
She buzzed once.
The door clicked open.
Inside, the concierge greeted her with a simple nod. "Penthouse is expecting you."
The elevator was silent. Too silent. Each floor it passed felt like time stretching thin.
When it finally opened, Max stepped into dim golden light and the scent of eucalyptus and warm linen.
And saw her.
-Aurelia-
She had barely beaten Max home.
She'd taken off her boots, tossed her coat over a chair, and fed Jasper in a daze. The lights were low—just a lamp in the corner, the glow from the street below spilling in through wide windows.
The loft was quiet. Too quiet.
And yet her heart pounded like a bass drum in her chest.
She didn't know why she sent the message.
She knew exactly why she sent the message.
Now, standing barefoot in Max's old shirt and a pair of silk shorts, she heard the elevator ding behind her.
And everything tilted.
Max stepped into the space like she'd been summoned by thought alone—rumpled, windblown, breathtaking in her exhaustion.
"You came," Aurelia said, quiet and unsure.
"You told me where to find you."
Max's voice was low. It did things to her.
Dangerous things.
Neither moved. The loft stretched long and open around them—brick and concrete and moonlight.
Jasper appeared silently, leaping onto the kitchen island, tail twitching with curiosity. He sat, poised like a judgmental chaperone, yellow eyes flicking from one woman to the other.
"You still have my shirt," Max said finally.
Aurelia's lips curved faintly. "You left it in Geneva. I kept it."
Max didn't respond.
She crossed the room instead—slow, deliberate.
When she stopped in front of her, Aurelia didn't breathe. The heat radiating off Max's body was more than just physical. It was a storm wrapped in silk and secrets.
"You're still sure?" Max asked, voice rough.
Aurelia looked up into her eyes—tired, dark, full of want.
"Yes," she whispered.
Max touched her face—lightly at first. A fingertip tracing her jaw. Then her palm cradled Aurelia's cheek like something fragile.
"I've missed you," Max said.
Then she kissed her.
The first kiss was careful. Testing. Reverent.
The second was everything else.
Max pressed her backward, hands at her waist, her body solid and warm. Aurelia arched into her, head spinning. Their mouths opened in sync, breath mingling, tongues teasing.
Max tasted like heat and steel and memory.
Aurelia moaned softly when Max's hands found bare skin beneath her shirt, sliding up her back, fingers splayed possessively.
"Still want to stop?" Max murmured.
"No," Aurelia said, dragging her lips across her throat. "Don't."
They stumbled across the open floor—past the kitchen island, past Jasper, who let out a disapproving meow and leapt from his perch.
"Even your cat's judging me," Max muttered between kisses.
"He judges everyone."
The bedroom door banged open behind them. Moonlight spilled across the bed, illuminating rumpled linen and the city beyond.
Max didn't wait.
She peeled off her jacket, letting it fall with a soft whisper. Aurelia helped with her shirt, fumbling buttons, gasping when Max kissed the curve between her breasts.
"You still taste like memory," Max said against her skin.
"And you still talk too much," Aurelia whispered.
They laughed. Then stopped laughing.
Because Max's hands slid beneath her shorts, fingers bold, sure, knowing.
Aurelia gasped. Her back hit the mattress.
Max followed, pressing her down, mouth at her throat, hips moving slow and sure between her legs.
Everywhere she touched, Aurelia burned.
Max kissed her like a secret.
Touched her like a confession.
Tasted her like a hunger that hadn't been fed in weeks.
And when Aurelia came undone beneath her, clutching Max's shoulders, whispering her name like a spell, Max kissed her through it, gentle now, steady.
After, Aurelia rolled them over.
"Don't think I'm letting you win tonight," she murmured.
"I wouldn't dare try."
She made Max beg.
Made her breathless.
Made her forget the legacy and the tower and the reasons why this was a bad idea.
Only this. Only now.
The city faded. Time unraveled. There was nothing left but skin and heat and the unspoken truth they could no longer avoid.
---
Morning crept in through the windows—gray light spilling across their tangled limbs.
Max blinked awake to the soft rise and fall of breath beside her. The scent of Aurelia in her sheets. A cat curled at her feet like he belonged there more than she did.
She should leave.
She didn't move.
Aurelia stirred beside her, eyes half-lidded, voice sleepy. "You're still here."
"I thought about leaving," Max murmured. "Didn't."
Aurelia's gaze sharpened. "You usually run."
"I'm tired of running."
Jasper yawned and stretched, pushing against Max's foot like he approved of her for the first time.
"You're winning him over," Aurelia said.
"That might be the harder battle."
Silence stretched again.
Max looked out at the skyline, then back at the woman beside her.
"I don't know what this is," she said. "But I can't pretend it doesn't matter."
Aurelia sat up, letting the sheet slide down her bare back.
"Then don't pretend," she said softly. "Choose it. Choose me. Not for a night. For real."
The words hung in the air like a dare.
Before Max could answer, Jasper meowed again, loudly.
"He wants breakfast," Aurelia said with a half-smile. "And I need coffee."
She slid out of bed, pulling on Max's shirt from the night before. A clear message.
At the door, she looked back.
"Stay for breakfast."
Not a plea. Not a joke.
An invitation.
Max hesitated. Then nodded. "Okay."
No answers yet. No grand solution.
But maybe a beginning.
She canceled her morning meetings, leaned back against Aurelia's pillow, and let herself stay in the one place she wasn't supposed to be.
But wanted to be most.