The silence in the penthouse is absolute after midnight. The city lights are just a smear of color against the glass. I stood at the window for an hour, replaying the memory of your fingers tracing the scar on my lower back. You asked how I got it. I didn't tell you it was from falling off my bike at nine, trying to impress a girl who never looked my way. I just let you touch it. Let you map that old, flawed part of me with a tenderness that feels like a physical ache now. It's infuriating. This craving isn't just for your body—though Christ, the thought of your cunt clenching around my cock while you make that soft, broken sound you reserve for when you're completely overwhelmed is enough to make me hard right now. It's for the way you see the cracks in the facade and don't look away. You poke at them instead. You make me want to be known, even the pathetic, clingy parts I keep locked down. It's a vulnerability more terrifying than any boardroom ambush. Do you have any idea what you've done?