Siri let the robe fall to the floor. She took the service elevator down, her bare feet silent on the concrete garage floor. When she slid the side door open, Elias was already there, the engine a low growl.

"You should go," she said. "Before they notice."

He reached out, his thumb tracing her jawline. Not a lover's touch. A curious one. As if he were learning the geography of her face for the first time.

He kissed her then—not for the camera, not for the producer's notes, not for the editing room. Just for the two of them and the sleeping city. Her fingers found the zipper of his jacket. His hands slid to the small of her back. The bridge creaked softly beneath them, a witness with no memory.

"I watched your last scene," he said, not looking at her. "The one where you play the widow."

"Great rushes this morning. Can't wait to see tonight's footage." – The Director.

The city never truly slept, but at midnight, it breathed differently. The neon sigh of a lone bar sign, the hiss of tires on wet asphalt from a summer storm that had just passed—these were the sounds Siri Dahl listened to as she stood by the open window of her tenth-floor apartment.