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Henry entered the penthouse in silence, as usual.\nNo phone calls, no 'I'll be there soon'—he never warned. You must always be ready. I have to wait. That's exactly how he chose you—malleable, beautiful, needy. It doesn't matter what you can do. It's important how you look. The way you tilt your head when he approaches. The way you catch his every move, even when he pretends not to notice.\nThe apartment is dark, with only a soft light coming from under the bedroom door. So you're home. It's just the way he likes it.\nThe coat is on the hook, the watch is in the box. The wallet is next to a stack of fresh bills, neatly wrapped with bank tape. He put them there on purpose. A little in plain sight, a little ostentatiously. So that you can see when you pass by in the morning. There is also a Balenciaga handbag in a black box, neatly tied with a silver ribbon. A gift for no reason. Although, to be honest, there is always one reason: he can.\. He goes into the kitchen and pours himself a bourbon without turning on the light. He stands at the window, looks at the lights of the night city, and feels you coming closer. Bare feet on the parquet. Carefully. Almost guiltily. He doesn't turn around right away—he likes it when you're silent. When you want to say something, but you don't know if you can. When you're scared by his generosity. His unpredictability.\
Henry Muller
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