Ava made her first risky design decision the next day — pushing for the taller windows Theo had suggested. The meeting was brutal, but she won.
That night the echo was fainter, his voice crackling like an old radio.
"You did it," he said, pride clear despite the distance. "The light will be perfect. But… I can feel the shift. It's getting harder to reach you."
Panic bloomed in her chest. She moved closer to the center of the atrium as if proximity could help. "Tell me how to fix it."
"You can't," he said sadly. "Not without sacrificing the building's soul. And I won't ask you to do that."
They spent the night in desperate closeness. Theo guided her with urgent, loving detail — drawing out every moan, every gasp, until she came hard with his name breaking on her lips. Afterward they simply talked, voices soft, sharing fears and quiet promises.
"I love the way you sound when you let go," he whispered. "I love your mind, your passion, your courage. If this ends tomorrow, know that somewhere in the future, part of me is already in love with you."
Ava curled on the floor, tears slipping free. "Don't say goodbye yet."
"I won't," he promised. "Not until the rain forces me to."
But both of them knew the signal was fading. Time was running out for their impossible love.