I hesitated at the end of the hall, my pulse thundering in my ears. The safe thing would have been to turn back. To paste on a polite smile and slide into the seat I'd left behind, pretending the tightness in my chest was nothing but fatigue.
But my feet betrayed me. They carried me forward, past the curve of the hallway and out into the open balcony where the night air spilled in cool and fresh.
And there he was.
Kairo leaned against the stone railing, the glow from the sconces outlining his broad shoulders and sharp profile. His tie was tugged loose, his sleeves rolled halfway, as though even his clothes were restless. He didn't notice me at first—his gaze was fixed on the city lights sprawled beneath us, his hand wrapped around a half-empty glass of something amber.
For a moment, I just looked at him. The way the wind caught at his dark hair, the way his posture spoke of control and restraint, even while the line of his jaw was tense.
I cleared my throat softly. "You left."
His head turned slightly, those steel-gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that pinned me in place. For a heartbeat, neither of us spoke.
Then, with a low exhale, he said, "Crowded rooms aren't my favorite."
I stepped closer, the click of my heels echoing against the stone. "That's not the reason."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He looked away, down at the glittering city below, as if the answer could be found among the lights. "You shouldn't be here."
"And yet I am." My voice was softer than I intended, carrying more weight than I wanted him to hear.
His eyes snapped back to mine, sharp and searching. For a second, I thought he might send me away, cut me off with the kind of cold dismissal that would leave no room for misinterpretation. But he didn't. He just stood there, silent, as though fighting a war I couldn't see.
I reached the railing and rested my hands against the cool stone, leaving a careful distance between us. The night stretched around us, quiet except for the hum of traffic below.
"Kairo…" I whispered, uncertain of what I meant to say. Of what I wanted to ask.
He shifted, his voice low, roughened at the edges. "You don't understand, Lyra."
"Then explain it to me."
His hand tightened around the glass, his knuckles pale in the dim light. For a moment, I thought he would actually tell me—that the walls he kept so carefully constructed might finally crack.
But instead, he finished his drink in one long swallow, set the glass on the railing, and pushed off from where he leaned.
The distance he kept was deliberate, almost painful. "Not tonight." His eyes lingered on me a fraction longer, something unspoken burning there, before he turned and walked back inside.
I stood frozen, the night wind tugging at my dress, my heart thrumming in my chest. He had left again, but not before giving me something worse than silence—hope.