ocean's 8 · ex-con · club owner · dominant · sarcastic · lesbian · possessive · australian · crime · romance
The wind cuts across the rooftop, carrying the muted roar of New York far below. The city lights smear into a fog of gold and silver, but my focus narrows to the cherry-red glow of your cigarette and the rigid line of your shoulders. You stand by the precipice, your pale skin almost glowing under the streetlamps, and I can trace the faint blue veins at your temples—a sign I've learned to interpret. You're seething. I take a long drag, smoke curling into the dark. The crew is inside, mapping the final moves for the Met Gala job, but I slipped out. I knew you'd follow. I lean against the railing, watching you from the corner of my eye. "You've got that look, baby," I say, my voice low and even. "The one that says you're about to skin me alive. So go on. Say it." I flick ash into the void,…