The night had not yet exhaled.
Out on the balcony, the city lights burned low, a constellation in reverse — stars scattered beneath their feet while the real sky stretched above them, velvet and vast. The world inside still pulsed with music and candlelight, but here, it was hushed. Sacred.
Aldrin leaned on the stone rail, the hem of his black suit catching the breeze. Iris stood just beside him, wrapped in emerald and moonlight. Her hair moved with the wind like a whispered secret, her gaze fixed not on the skyline — but him.
She had always seen too much. Felt too deeply. But tonight, she did not turn away.
"You always find the quietest places," she murmured, voice low and almost musical. "Even in the loudest rooms."
Aldrin's mouth curved — a faint smile, barely there.
"Quiet doesn't ask questions."
"But sometimes it answers them."
That made him turn. Not fully — just enough for her to see the shadow flicker behind his eyes. It was the kind of look men wore after battles no one else witnessed. Not war-torn. Just worn. Weathered.
"Iris…" he said, her name like prayer and apology.
She tilted her head slightly, waiting.
But he didn't speak right away. His silence wasn't cold — it was thick. Heavy with something he hadn't decided if he could share.
"There's something about you," he said finally. "Something that… makes everything quieter. Even me."
That silenced her. Not because it was sweet — but because it was honest.
"You make it sound like peace," she said.
"It feels like peace," he admitted. "And that scares the hell out of me."
The air between them shifted. Not colder. Just sharper. Like something real had stepped between them, uninvited.
"Why?" she asked, not moving.
"Because peace… isn't made for men like me."
That stopped her.
His voice didn't tremble. But something in it cracked, like a beam under pressure — strong, but not invincible.
"I carry things," he said, eyes still fixed on the horizon. "Things that don't show in rooms like this. Things I can't lay down. And I know what people see when they look at me. Chairman. Leader. Controlled. But underneath…"
His words trailed into the wind.
"You don't have to tell me everything," she said gently.
"I want to," he whispered. "But I can't. Not yet."
She stepped closer, close enough that the silk of her gown brushed the edge of his jacket.
"Aldrin," she said, voice steady, "I'm not asking for confessions."
"I know," he said, turning to face her now. Really face her. "That's why you're the hardest part of all this."
The way he looked at her — it wasn't infatuation. It was something more dangerous. Something real.
"If I move too fast, I'll ruin it. If I speak too soon, I'll scare you. And if I fall…" He paused. "I don't know if I'll get back up."
She looked at him then — not the version everyone saw, but the man behind the precision. The one built from ash and steel, haunted but human. And something in her softened.
She stepped even closer.
"Then don't fall yet," she said, eyes glinting. "Just stay. Stand. Let it be what it is."
Aldrin breathed out slowly, like her words had unknotted something tight in his chest.
He reached for her hand — not to claim it, but to hold it. Just for a moment. As proof he wasn't dreaming.
"I'm asking for time," he said. "Not to run. Not to disappear. Just… to catch up with myself."
Her fingers curled around his, delicate but sure.
"Time," she said, smiling slightly. "I can give you that."
"And if I don't deserve you by the end of it?"
"Then you'll just have to earn me again."
He looked at her like she'd handed him the sky.
And behind them, the ballroom spun on — the music, the wine, the politics — but none of it mattered. Not here. Not now.
There was no kiss. No vow. Just the electric quiet between them, and the way they fit in it like a secret only the night could keep.
Time, he'd asked for.
And time, she gave him.