The elevator door opened with a soft chime, spilling golden light onto the rooftop. You stepped out barefoot, the city humming quietly far below. Above you, thousands of stars burned through a velvet sky, and fairy lights draped across the terrace swayed with the breeze, casting soft glows across the garden.
You walked forward, the hem of your deep burgundy velvet dress whispering against your skin. Your heart beat faster, but it wasn’t nerves — it was anticipation. You felt beautiful, dangerous even, like a secret only the night could keep.
Then you saw him.
He stood by a low table set with flickering candles and a bottle of champagne already sweating in its ice bucket. His black shirt clung to his frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar undone. When he turned and saw you, the smallest smile ghosted his lips — not the kind for crowds or cameras, but one meant only for you.
“You look like you belong to the stars tonight,” he said, voice low and rough.
You smiled, stepping closer so the tips of your toes brushed his.
“Then make a wish while you can,” you teased, your breath warm between you.
Without another word, he caught your hand and spun you gently under the fairy lights. You tipped your head back and laughed — soft, real — and when you faced him again, his hand lingered at the small of your back, as though afraid you might disappear if he let go.
The night unfolded like a spell.
You sipped champagne and tasted rich chocolate-covered strawberries, your lips brushing his fingers when he fed you one. You talked — not about work, not about obligations, but about dreams. About the places you wanted to see, the songs that broke your heart, the little, invisible hopes you kept hidden from everyone else. He listened like every word was a treasure map.
Later, you led him to the telescope standing near the edge of the roof. He stood behind you, one arm braced on either side of your body, his chest warm against your back. You pointed at a bright star and felt his breath against your ear when he murmured:
“I found my favorite star tonight, and she’s not in the sky.”
You turned — slowly, daringly — and met his gaze. The moment stretched between you, trembling with a tension so tender it almost hurt. And then you kissed. Sweet at first. Curious. Then deeper, fiercer — as if the kiss could keep the night from ending.
Time lost meaning after that.
You danced barefoot under the stars, spinning and swaying to music only you could hear. You sprawled out across velvet cushions, heads close together, laughing about memories and confessing childhood secrets. His fingers drew idle, tender patterns on the inside of your wrist, your shoulder, the curve of your hip.
And when the sky began to hint at dawn, you didn’t say goodbye.
Instead, he tucked a folded note into the strap of your dress and whispered:
“For the next time you steal the stars.”
You found it later, alone in your room, when the city was silent again.
A single line written in his hand:
“I wished for you.”
