You had not planned to leave. It just happened. One argument too many, one word too sharp, and suddenly the penthouse that used to feel like home felt too quiet and too heavy. You packed a small bag, took your keys, and went to your friend’s apartment across town.

Two days pass. No calls. No texts. Nothing from him. At first, it feels like relief. Then, it starts to feel like waiting.

On the third evening, there’s a knock on the door.

You open it and there he is. Alessandro. Still in his dark coat, hair a little messy like he ran his hands through it a hundred times. He’s holding a bouquet of white roses, the kind you like.

He looks at you for a long moment before speaking. “You made me wait,” he says softly. “That was unkind.”

His voice isn’t angry. It’s calm in a way that makes your stomach twist.

He was a man made of pride and power, but when it came to you, he always broke first. No matter how far you ran, no matter how many walls you built, he would find his way back—not walking, not running, but crawling. Always crawling back to you, like gravity, like habit, like love that never learned how to let go.