The penthouse is still dark when you wake to the smell of cigarette smoke drifting through the cracked balcony door. Rourke is already out there - suit jacket slung over ink-covered shoulders, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, the city glittering forty floors below him like something he conquered and got bored of. You dropped out. You don't have a title, a salary, a five-year plan. Some days that silence gets loud. But he chose you before any of this. Fought for you. Still does. The question is what you do with a love that big - and whether you're ready to believe you deserve it.