The Penthouse Pact

The rain fell in shimmering sheets against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, blurring the city lights into a watercolor wash of neon and gold. Inside, Avery was curled into the corner of the plush charcoal sofa, a glass of red wine cradled in her hands. She let out an exaggerated sigh, loud enough to carry across the open-plan living space.

“Another dud?” Jordan asked from the kitchen island, not looking up from where he was methodically slicing an apple. He was in his usual evening attire: gray sweatpants and a worn-out college t-shirt that had seen better days. The picture of domestic comfort.

“Worse than a dud,” Avery grumbled, taking a pointed sip of her wine. “He was a monologue-ist. I swear, I learned more about the quarterly earnings of his startup than I did about him. I don’t think he asked me a single question.” She swirled the dark liquid in her glass. “It’s a wasteland out there, J. A barren, soul-crushing wasteland of men who think ‘good conversationalist’ means talking about themselves for two hours straight.”

Jordan chuckled, sliding a plate of apple slices onto the marble countertop next to a block of sharp cheddar. “Tell me about it. I went on three dates last month. One girl spent the whole time texting her ex, one cried about her cat, and the third… well, let’s just say her profile picture was very, very generous.” He finally looked over at her, a wry smile playing on his lips. “We’re a pathetic pair, you and I.”

Avery pushed herself up, padding over to the island to snag a slice of apple. “Pathetic is an understatement. We live in this incredible apartment in the middle of a city with millions of people, and we’re both in the midst of a romantic drought of biblical proportions.” She leaned her hip against the cool marble, her shoulder brushing his. The contact was familiar, easy, something she never thought twice about.

“It’s a problem,” Jordan agreed, his voice a little lower now. He turned to face her, his easy smile fading into something more thoughtful. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth for just a fraction of a second, a flicker so brief she almost thought she’d imagined it. “We’re friends. We trust each other. We’re both… you know.” He gestured vaguely between them. “In need.”

Avery’s breath hitched. The air in the kitchen suddenly felt thicker, charged with an energy that hadn’t been there a moment before. The familiar comfort of their friendship was shifting into something else, something uncertain and humming with possibility. “What are you suggesting, Jordan?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He held her gaze, his expression serious, all traces of his earlier humor gone. “I’m suggesting a solution. For us. No dating apps, no bad dinners, no emotional wastelands.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle between them. “Just you and me.”

Avery’s heart gave a distinct, powerful thud against her ribs. The rain outside seemed to intensify, a frantic drumming that matched the sudden rush of her pulse. She stared at him, at the familiar lines of his face now cast in a completely new light. The Jordan she’d known for years—the one who left wet towels on the floor and made the best Sunday morning pancakes—was suddenly a stranger. A dangerously attractive stranger.

“You can’t be serious,” she finally managed, her voice a little shaky. She tried for a laugh, but it came out as a breathless puff of air.

“I’ve never been more serious,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. He didn’t move closer, but his intensity filled the space between them. “Look, Avery. We’re adults. We have needs. We also have a friendship that I value more than anything. I’m not suggesting we date. I’m suggesting… an addendum. A convenience. It’s logical.”

Logical. The word was so Jordan. He was trying to frame this seismic shift as a simple, rational decision, like choosing a brand of coffee. And yet, a part of her, a part she had long suppressed, was listening intently. The idea was terrifying, reckless. It was also undeniably tempting.

“If we did this,” she began slowly, testing the weight of the words on her tongue, “there would have to be rules. Strict ones. To protect… this.” She gestured between them, indicating the comfortable friendship that now felt like it was standing on a cliff’s edge.

A flicker of relief crossed his face. He’d won the first battle. “Rules. Absolutely. That’s the only way it works.”

He pulled out a barstool for her, a simple gesture of courtesy that felt loaded with new meaning. She sat, her knees feeling weak. Jordan grabbed a notepad and a pen from a drawer cluttered with takeout menus and spare keys. He placed it on the marble island between them, a makeshift contract for an unthinkable pact.

“Okay,” he said, uncapping the pen. “Rule number one. It’s just physical. No emotions.”

Avery nodded, watching the way his fingers curled around the pen. “No getting jealous. If one of us goes on a date with someone else, the other one can’t say a thing.”

“Agreed,” he said, scribbling it down. “Rule number three: No sleeping over. After… we’re done, we go back to our own rooms. No cuddling, no morning-after stuff.”

The clinical nature of the words sent a shiver through her, a strange mix of cold dread and hot anticipation. “And it ends the second one of us starts to feel something real,” she added, her voice firm. “For each other, or for someone else. No questions asked, no hard feelings. We just… stop.”

He wrote it down, the scratching of the pen the only sound for a moment besides the rain. “No telling anyone. Especially not Maya or Ben. It stays in this apartment.”

“Deal.”

He finished writing and set the pen down. There it was, a short, bulleted list that was supposed to contain the fallout of what they were about to do. He pushed the notepad toward her, his fingers brushing hers as she reached for it. The touch was electric, a tiny spark that lit a fuse inside her. They looked at the list, then at each other. The rules were written, the terms agreed upon. A line had been drawn, and they had both just stepped over it. The air was thick with the unspoken question of who would make the first move.

The silence that followed was heavier than any conversation they’d ever had. The list on the notepad seemed to mock them, a stark, clinical set of instructions for something that felt anything but. Jordan cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He extended a hand, palm up. It wasn’t a gesture of passion, but one of polite invitation, as if he were about to lead her onto a dance floor.

Avery’s fingers trembled as she placed her hand in his. His skin was warm, familiar, yet the context made it feel entirely foreign. He led her from the bright lights of the kitchen down the hallway toward his bedroom. Every step was deliberate, measured. There was no playful pull, no stolen kiss against the wall. It felt procedural. Logical, as he’d said.

His room was dark, the only light filtering in from the hallway. He didn’t turn on a lamp. The shadows were a welcome shield, hiding the uncertainty she knew must be written all over her face. He turned to her, his hands finding her waist. His touch was hesitant, almost tentative, as if he were asking for permission with his fingertips. She rested her hands on his shoulders, the fabric of his old t-shirt soft beneath her palms.

This was Jordan. The man who knew she hated cilantro and always left the last scoop of ice cream for her. But as his mouth lowered to hers, he was a stranger. The kiss wasn't hungry or desperate; it was careful. It was the kiss of someone trying very hard to follow a rulebook. His lips moved against hers with a practiced rhythm that lacked any real heat, and she responded in kind, a mirror of his restraint. It was a physical act, a checking of a box.

He guided her backward until the backs of her knees hit the edge of his bed, and she sat. He unbuttoned her blouse with an unnerving efficiency, his gaze focused on the task, not on her. She felt a profound sense of detachment, as if she were watching a scene unfold from across the room. This was what they had agreed to. Just physical. No emotion. But in stripping away the emotion, they had also stripped away the intimacy, leaving only a hollow, mechanical act. His movements were smooth, but they felt rehearsed. Every touch felt like it was preceded by a thought: is this allowed? Is this breaking a rule?

When it was over, the silence returned, thicker and more awkward than before. There was no shared, breathless laughter, no contented sigh. Adhering to Rule #3, he didn’t pull her against his chest. He didn’t kiss her forehead. He simply shifted away, giving her space. The distance felt like a chasm.

“Avery,” he started, his voice a low murmur in the dark, but he didn’t finish. What was there to say?

“I should go,” she whispered, already swinging her legs off the bed, gathering her clothes from the floor. The air was cold on her skin. She dressed quickly, not looking at him, feeling his gaze on her back. At the door, she paused, her hand on the knob. She wanted to turn, to say something that would fix the strange, sterile feeling hanging between them, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Night, J,” she said to the doorframe.

“Night, Ave,” he replied.

She walked back to her own room, the plush carpet silencing her footsteps. Closing her door, she leaned against it, the wood cool against her back. She didn’t feel satisfied or relieved. She felt empty. A deep, unsettling uncertainty churned in her stomach. They had followed the rules perfectly, and in doing so, had created something that felt transactional and deeply, profoundly lonely.