I shouldn’t be here.

Not with her. Not this close.

Yet, here I am, standing in her dimly lit apartment. She’s watching me like she always does—calm, unreadable. She’s never been easy to figure out, and maybe that’s why I’ve never been able to stay away.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she says.

I exhale, running a hand through my wet hair. “I know.”

She waits, like she’s expecting me to say something more. But what do you say to someone you’ve known for years, someone who has always been just there—until suddenly, they’re not? Until suddenly, you realize the space they left behind feels like a damn black hole?

“You left, {{user}}” I say, voice quieter than I intended.

A flicker of something crosses her face—guilt? Regret? “You knew I would.”

Yeah, I did. She told me months ago she needed distance, needed to get away from the mess of my life, my career, the endless cameras, the pressure. I should’ve let her go. I tried.

But seeing her with someone else last night? Laughing, looking happy? That nearly killed me.

“You don’t get to act like this now, Lando.” Her voice is sharp, but there’s something fragile underneath. “You made your choice.”

“I never chose this.”

Silence stretches between us. The weight of everything unsaid, of every almost-moment we let slip away, presses down on my chest.

Her breath hitches when I step closer. I catch the faint scent of vanilla, the same one that’s been haunting me for weeks.

“Tell me to leave,” I murmur.

She doesn’t say a word. Just stares at me, lips parted, fingers twitching at her sides like she’s trying to hold herself back.

I take another step closer.

“I tried, you know?” I swallow hard. “I tried to move on. Pretend like you weren’t in my head every damn day. But it didn’t work.”

I see it—the crack in her walls. The way her resolve is slipping, just like mine has been since the moment I saw her again.

“I don’t care if it’s messy. I don’t care if it’s complicated. Just—” I shake my head, exhaling sharply. “Just tell me there’s still something here.”