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Her voice could destroy that distance in a single breath.

The clerk begins lowering the metal gate across the counter, and I leave before I do something humiliating like ask him to return an envelope he has already watched me surrender.

Milwaukee has turned cold enough for every breath to feel edged. Wind off the lake slides beneath the collar of my coat as I walk the two blocks home, and rain needles across my face while traffic crawls through streets shining beneath the early-evening lights. Charm once told me winter made every city look honest because snow buried the evidence of its imperfections while exposing every footprint left behind.

I argued that covering something wasn’t the same as honesty.

She called me insufferable and stole my gloves.

I can still hear the exact cadence of her laugh.

That is the problem.

By the time I reach my building, my fingers are cold inside my pockets and Briggs is standing near the entrance without a coat. His dress shirt hangs open at the throat, the sleeves shoved toward his elbows despite the temperature, and the woman beside him is beautiful enough to make three people inside the lobby turn for a second look.

Briggs kisses her beneath the awning while rain blown beneath it gathers in his hair.

She keeps one hand against his chest. His rests low against her back, but there is no hunger in the way he touches her. The performance is convincing until someone knows him well enough to notice he has turned his face slightly away.

I wait near the curb until she climbs into the car.

Briggs watches the taillights disappear, then shoves both hands into his pockets and turns toward me.

“You planning to rob the place?” he asks.

“I was deciding whether interrupting would save her from a disappointing night.”

“Nothing about me disappoints women.”

“She left alone.”

“She has work tomorrow.”

“You have practice tomorrow.”

“I perform better beneath pressure.”

I glance toward the car disappearing at the corner. “Did you learn her name?”

Briggs starts through the revolving door. “Names create unreasonable expectations.”

The doorman nods as we cross the lobby. Briggs gives him the smile capable of convincing most people he is having the greatest night of his life, then presses the elevator button three times.

The doors open on the first attempt.

“You know hitting it again doesn’t make it arrive faster,” I tell him.

“I reject that kind of limiting belief.”

He enters the elevator and braces his shoulder against the mirrored wall. His reflection catches beneath the overhead light, and the smile leaves before he can replace it.

Some nights, Briggs needs a bar, a woman, and enough noise to pretend freedom feels the same as peace. He dances, flirts, buys drinks for half the room, and returns home smelling like someone else’s perfume. Those nights, I let him disappear into the version of himself untouched by Lyric because I understand the appeal of becoming someone who doesn’t know what happened.

Other nights begin exactly the same way and end with him unable to unlock his own door.

I press twenty-three, then reach for his floor.

“I’m not going home,” he says.