The elevator opened to wind and neon.
Rooftop air carried the after-rain bite that made the city feel new. String lights ran like constellations above low tables; a glass balustrade caught the skyline and returned it in fractured glimmers. Somewhere, ice met steel in a shaker—click-click—before a quiet thump of metal on wood. Laughter drifted, low, threaded with music that didn't try too hard.
Freya stepped out first.
Black mini-dress, cropped leather jacket, bare knees kissed by the wind. Her hair was a careless waterfall, the kind stylists spent hours pretending was accidental. She didn't check if Orion followed; she knew he would. He did—white shirt open two buttons, sleeves rolled, dark trousers that made the rest of him look easier than he ever admitted.
"Pick a view," she said, not slowing. "City or me."
He glanced at the horizon, then at her. "Redundant choice."
"Flattery?" She smirked. "Dangerous habit."
"Observation." He let the door drift shut behind them.
They took a booth pressed to glass—half in shadow, half in the city's glow. Below, headlights stitched the avenues into moving necklaces. The bar's heater purred. A server arrived with the posture of someone who already knew their names.
"Something smoky," Freya said, eyes still on the skyline. "Not sweet. Tall glass."
"For you, sir?"
"Black," Orion said, then amended, "No—make it short. Whatever pairs with trouble."
The server's mouth twitched; he vanished.
Wind teased the hem of Freya's jacket. She leaned her elbows on the table, chin propped on her knuckles, gold eyes finding Orion's like a dare she'd been saving.
"You look less… boardroom tonight."
"Laundered the thunder out," he said.
"Shame." Her smile warmed. "The thunder was useful."
"Your sister didn't think so."
"Lunox thinks the weather should ask permission." Freya tilted her head, a strand of hair catching on her lip gloss; she blew it away. "You don't."
"I prefer doors that open."
"Or break," she said lightly.
"If they were misused."
The drinks arrived: hers a highball breathing campfire, his a cut-glass lowball, dark as a secret. Freya wrapped her fingers around the cold and watched the city through her reflection on the rim.
"So?" She sipped, winced, grinned. "You survived my sister. My turn to be difficult."
"You've been practicing," he said.
"I was born difficult." Freya's foot tapped the booth, a restless rhythm. "Tell me something true."
He waited. She let the silence sit, testing.
"Fine," she said, lifting two fingers. "I'll start. I hate small rooms. I love rain on glass. And I have never liked the word 'almost.'"
Orion's gaze drifted to the edge where the bar's glass ended and open air began. "Small rooms are useful," he said. "Rain hides mistakes. And 'almost' is a map."
"To what?"
"Where people stop themselves."
Freya's laugh came quick. "You talk like a knife wrapped in linen."
"You invite cuts."
"Only from sharp things."
A gust whisked across the rooftop, carrying the city's metal breath and something sweet from a nearby table. Freya tucked hair behind her ear; the tiny gold hoop there winked at the skyline.
She let another beat pass. "You're not asking why I dragged you here."
"You don't drag." He tipped the glass, let the liquor touch his lip, not linger. "You curate."
"That's worse."
"More accurate."
Freya looked down at their hands—the way his rested easy, the way hers never did—and then up again. "I wanted to see how you look when you're not being watched."
"I'm always being watched." His tone wasn't complaint; it was a weather report.
"Maybe." She leaned in a fraction. "But you choose who gets to notice."
"And you?" he asked.
"I notice everything," she said, soft. "Especially the parts people try to bury."
Wind lifted the edge of a napkin; Orion anchored it with one finger. The gesture was nothing, and steady, and told her too much.
"You know," Freya went on, the smirk turning thoughtful, "the first time I met you, I thought—ah. A man who doesn't blink."
"I blink," he said.
"When?"
"When I choose to."
She clinked her glass against his. "There it is. The arrogance that makes rooms go quiet."
"They went quiet because the numbers were wrong."
Freya's grin tilted. "And because you liked fixing them in front of an audience."
"I liked fixing them."
She was the one who blinked then—slow, almost private. "I like that answer."
A couple near the bar lifted a phone, the lens pretending to be casual. Freya ignored it. The heater hummed. Somewhere behind them, someone cheered at a goal no one on this roof had seen.
"Tell me another true thing," she said.
Orion's eyes dipped to her mouth, then back. "You'd run if anyone tried to cage you."
"Obvious."
"You'd burn the cage," he added, "and then learn to dance on the metal."
Freya laughed low; it landed between them like a promise. "Your turn to be obvious."
"You're not afraid of loud," he said. "You're afraid of quiet with the wrong person."
Her fingers tightened around the glass. For a heartbeat, the wind didn't move. "And you?" she asked. "What do you fear?"
"Waste," he said. "Time, talent, truth."
"Mm." She tasted the word, not the drink. "Then don't waste tonight."
He didn't pretend not to understand.
A small plane blinked across the darkness. Taxi horns stitched a loose chorus below. Freya shifted closer in the booth—no performance now, just gravity. Her knee brushed his. She didn't move it away.
"Choose a view," she said again, quieter this time.
He didn't look at the skyline.
"Redundant," he murmured.
Her mouth bent into something dangerous and oddly gentle. "Good answer."
They sat with the city in their palms and the wind in their hair, letting the moment lengthen until it could hold weight. Freya set her glass down, the ice chiming once; she traced the ring it left on the lacquered wood.
"No 'almost,'" she said, barely above the music.
He didn't argue.
The server passed; the phone near the bar angled again. Neither of them turned. The night leaned in, the kind of night that remembers.
Freya's smile lifted—sun through smoke. "Stay," she said. It wasn't a command. It wasn't a request. It was an itinerary.
Orion's answer was a breath that sounded like yes.
And the city, below them, kept its lights on.
Freya tipped her head back against the booth, watching him through the fall of her lashes. Her glass sat abandoned, the smoky scent of her drink rising like incense between them. A curl of hair slid forward, brushing her collarbone as the wind teased the rooftop.
"You don't do this often, do you?" she asked.
"Drink?"
"Breathe." Her lips curved. "Like you're actually here and not already five moves ahead."
His gaze held hers, silver steady in the glow of the rooftop lights. "Maybe you're catching me on a rare night."
"Then I'll count myself lucky." She leaned in slightly, elbow propped on the table, chin in her palm. The string lights caught her eyes, turning them molten. "Or maybe you're the lucky one."
Orion didn't smile, but something flickered at the corner of his mouth, brief and sharp. He lifted his glass, sipped, then set it down with precision. "Luck is loud. I don't like loud."
Freya laughed, low and warm. "Then you're in the wrong family. We are nothing but loud."
Her foot brushed his under the table. Not by mistake. She didn't apologize.
Orion's hand stilled on the glass. He didn't move away.
"Does she know you're here?"Freya asked suddenly, her tone dipping playful but edged with something else.
He didn't need to ask who. "Would it matter?"
"It would to her," Freya said. She traced the rim of her glass with one fingertip, lazy circles. "My sister doesn't like losing control. And you…" she let her gaze roam over him deliberately, "you are nothing but control wrapped in a suit."
"And you?" he asked.
"I'm the opposite." She grinned, teeth catching the rooftop glow. "Chaos in silk."
Her words landed between them, sparking against his silence.
The bar around them shifted—someone laughed too loudly, a group clinked glasses near the edge—but in their corner, the world narrowed. The city pressed close through glass, rain streaks catching neon.
Freya leaned closer, closing the fraction of space left. "You know what I like about you?"
Orion's eyes narrowed just slightly. "You haven't told me yet."
"You look at me," she said softly, "like I'm not a performance."
For once, his answer came without pause. "Because you're not."
The words cracked something, just for a second. Her grin softened, eyes flaring with surprise before she masked it again with another tilt of her head.
"Careful," she teased, though her voice was quieter now. "Lines like that could get you kissed."
His reply was calm, unhurried. "Then why not?"
Freya's laughter spilled, light and bright, but it didn't hide the way her hand slid across the table, stopping inches from his. The night hummed louder in that pause, every sound sharper for how close they sat.
Her golden gaze locked on his, fire daring storm. "Maybe I will."
Orion didn't blink.
And for the first time that night, Freya's playful grin trembled into something real.
The rooftop air thinned, or maybe it only felt that way when Orion didn't look away. His silver gaze held hers like gravity, too steady, too certain, and the careless rhythm of her pulse broke into something uneven.
She lifted her glass again, though she didn't drink. The rim hovered near her lips, catching the glow of neon, disguising the faint hitch in her breath. She tipped it just enough to wet her mouth, then set it back down with a soft chime.
"Careful," she said, voice lilting, almost teasing, but not quite. "If you keep staring at me like that, I might just kiss you."
Orion didn't flinch. He didn't laugh. He didn't play.
His voice came low, deliberate. "Then why don't you?"
The world narrowed.
Her smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of surprise—quick, bright, then gone as fast as lightning. She leaned back slightly, searching his face for mockery, for hesitation, for the usual escape routes men offered when pushed too close to fire. There was none. Just stormlight, unyielding.
The wind teased her hair across her cheek. She let it fall, golden strands brushing her collarbone, her lips curving again, sharper this time. "You don't scare easy."
"I don't scare," he said.
That stole her laugh, softer than usual, almost breathless. Her hand slid across the lacquered table, fingertips grazing the condensation of his glass. She didn't quite touch his hand—yet.
"You realize," she murmured, golden eyes steady on him, "if I kiss you, it won't be small."
"Good." His tone didn't rise. "Small things waste time."
Her breath caught, then slipped into a grin, dangerous and alive. She leaned in, elbows on the table, chin tilting closer until her perfume—smoke, jasmine, heat—wrapped around him.
"Do you even know what you're asking for?" she whispered.
"Yes." The word landed like a blade pressed flat, not cutting, but sharp enough to remind her he meant it.
Freya's hand moved finally, resting atop his. Warmth met steadiness. Sparks leapt.
Her laughter spilled, quick and bright, but it carried a shiver of truth this time. "God, you really are dangerous."
"And you," he said, silver eyes unblinking, "are exactly what danger looks for."
For a moment, the rooftop vanished—the chatter of nearby tables, the hum of the heater, the low jazz spilling from hidden speakers. There was only the distance shrinking between them, the inevitability curling tighter with every heartbeat.
Freya tilted her head, lips parting, gold gaze fixed on storm. "Then maybe I should stop talking."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was a fuse.
Her hand tightened over his, and before hesitation could wedge itself between them, she leaned in—reckless, hungry, alive. Their mouths met with heat that didn't test or question. It claimed.
The kiss was bold, the kind that erased lines instead of drawing them. She tasted of smoke and whiskey, sweet and dangerous. His lips moved against hers with a calm that wasn't hesitation but gravity—inevitable, unyielding.
Her laugh caught in the kiss, soft but breathless, as if fire had discovered oxygen. She tugged at his collar, jacket slipping from her shoulder. His hand rose, fingers firm at her jaw, tilting her face just enough to deepen the kiss without losing control.
When they parted, just for air, her lips lingered a heartbeat longer against his. Her golden eyes burned, her smile unsteady in a way she rarely let anyone see.
"You…" she whispered, voice low, almost incredulous, "kiss like you mean it."
Orion's gaze didn't flicker. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, a gesture quiet, almost reverent. "There's no point otherwise."
Her breath caught again—this time not from fire, but something dangerously close to tenderness. She shook her head, laughing softly, trying to bury the crack. "God, you're impossible."
"Or consistent," he said.
She kissed him again, quicker this time, but with more weight, as if sealing something unspoken. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his, strands of her hair falling to brush his cheek.
"Careful," she murmured, softer now, "keep this up and I might not let you go."
For once, his reply carried something beneath the storm, quiet but sharp enough to pierce.
"Maybe I don't want you to."
Her lips parted, a breath trembling against his. The rooftop vanished again, just them, just the truth neither had expected to speak.
Freya pressed her hand to his chest, right over the steady beat there. Her smile returned, but it was gentler, warmer, something rare. "Dangerous, storm. You make fire want to stay."
His answer was silence, but the way his hand lingered at her jaw, steady and deliberate, told her enough.
Another kiss followed, slower now, less hunger, more gravity. The kind of kiss that said this wasn't performance, wasn't spectacle—it was real, however fleeting the night might be.
And still, from the far side of the bar, a phone camera clicked, capturing flame and storm locked together under city light.
But Freya didn't care. For the first time, maybe ever, she wasn't playing for the crowd.
She laughed softly against his lips, whispering, "No more almost."
And he kissed her back like agreement.
The rooftop wind shifted, scattering napkins and carrying neon haze across the glass rail.
Phones lifted. Screens glowed. Somewhere near the bar, another shutter clicked.
Freya knew. But,yet...yes..she didn't care.
Instead, she leaned in once more, her lips capturing Orion's lips with sudden fire—more hotter, hungrier than the first. This wasn't a tease, wasn't playful banter dressed in silk. This was flame baring its teeth.
She shifted, closing the last of the distance until her body pressed against his side. The booth's leather creaked as she swung one leg over, settling onto his lap with the confidence of someone who had never asked permission in her life.
The city blurred beneath them. The only clarity was the heat where fire met storm.
Orion's hand steadied her waist automatically, anchoring her though his silver eyes stayed unreadable. He didn't resist. He didn't push forward either. He let her burn, let her pour herself into the kiss as if she could set the night alight.
Freya's fingers slid into his hair, tugging him closer, lips parting against his. The kiss deepened—no longer simply contact, but clash. Breath tangled, heat sharpened, the taste of smoke and whiskey lingering on both their tongues.
Her laughter broke against his mouth, wild and low, before she captured him again. "Now this," she whispered, lips brushing his, "is a headline worth writing."
Orion's voice was rougher when he finally spoke, though his calm never cracked. "You're inviting the fire to spread."
"Let it," she breathed, kissing him again, harder.
Another flash went off—paparazzi catching the curve of her jacket falling, the way her body leaned into his, their mouths locked with unashamed heat.
Freya relished it. She angled herself just enough so the skyline lit her golden hair, the kiss a silhouette of chaos and storm. This wasn't hiding. This was spectacle. A performance that she mean to made it real.
When she finally pulled back, breathless, her forehead rested against his, eyes molten and alive. "Tomorrow," she said, smiling like the city belonged to her, "they'll call it scandal. I'll call it art."
Orion's silver gaze lingered, storm quiet beneath fire. His answer was a curve of his mouth, faint and mysterious, the kind of smile that neither denied nor confirmed anything.
The cameras clicked again. The world already had its story.
And Freya, still straddling stormlight, laughed softly to herself. "Good. Let them watch."