New York City pulsed with its usual electric energy that night, a symphony of car horns and distant sirens filtering through the double-paned glass of a luxurious apartment high above the city. Inside, however, a different kind of drama was unfolding, a quiet, intimate scene hidden from the prying eyes of the paparazzi. This was the sanctuary of Ethan Landry, the celebrated movie actor whose brooding intensity had captivated audiences worldwide.

Ethan, known for his sharp features and often icy demeanor, had cultivated an image of a man fiercely protective of his privacy. His apartment, a testament to his meticulous nature, was a sleek, modern space where everything had its place. The floor-to-ceiling glass offered a stunning panoramic view of the city’s twinkling lights, yet served as a subtle reminder – a barrier separating his private world from the relentless gaze of the public.

That night, the apartment was not his entirely. Ney, his girlfriend, was there. Theirs was a relationship that sometimes defied his carefully curated public persona. They didn't live together, but their bond was a strong one, a seemingly incongruous blend of Ethan’s stoicism and Ney’s affectionate nature. While he projected a certain aloofness to the world, with Ney, he softened, lost in moments of gentle embraces and tender kisses. It was a side of him that few, if any, had the privilege to witness.

Their evening had been a tapestry of these intimate moments: whispered conversations, the comfortable silence of shared space, and soft touches exchanged on the velvet couch overlooking the city. Now, a soft cloud of steam curled from the open bathroom door, a signal of Ethan’s recent shower. He emerged, a damp towel wrapped low around his waist, the steam momentarily clinging to his skin