The music was still audible through the glass door — low, procedural, the kind that fills a room without anyone actually listening. She had stepped outside first. He had followed, because of course he had.
They stood at the edge of the terrace, not touching, looking at nothing in particular. The garden below was dark. The sky above was that particular shade of city-night that has no name.
She was aware of the exact distance between her shoulder and his arm.
He hadn't said anything since they'd come out. She found she was glad of it. Words would make this something that required a decision. A minute passed. Maybe two.
She turned her head just slightly — not to look at him, just toward him, a quarter-degree shift that meant everything and nothing. He felt it. She knew he felt it.
"We should go back in," she said.
"We should," he agreed.
Neither of them moved.
The music changed inside, something with more bass, and she heard someone laugh — high and careless, the sound of people who didn't know they were being envied.
She thought: in a moment one of us will turn. She thought: I would like it to be him. She thought: I would like it very much.
The night air was cool on her collarbone. He shifted his weight, barely, the length of his arm now a breath from hers.
This, she thought. This is it. The whole thing is this.