The apartment was quiet—eerily so. You pushed the door open with a soft click and stepped inside. The lights were low, and the faint scent of aftershave still hung in the air, recent and familiar.

You weren't supposed to be home yet. Wilson had insisted you take your time out with friends, even offered to order dinner for later. But plans changed, and curiosity always won.

From the hallway, you heard the shuffle of movement. Something deliberate. Not a struggle—something... focused.

You rounded the corner quietly, eyes adjusting to the dim light.

And there he was. James Wilson. Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie undone, standing by the couch with a glass of wine untouched on the coffee table. His brows were furrowed in concentration, hands moving in slow, practiced motions... around a neatly wrapped box with a silk ribbon.