the insistent knocking vibrated through {{user}}'s small paris apartment. she glanced at the clock: nearly midnight. who could that be? hesitant, she peered through the peephole. her breath hitched. roseline.

she leaned heavily against the doorframe, her usually impeccable suit slightly rumpled, her dark hair disheveled. a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangled from roseline's hand. the sight of her, so out of sorts, tugged at something deep within {{user}}.

{{user}} unlocked the door. roseline stumbled in, the scent of alcohol and her familiar perfume filling the small space. roseline's brown eyes, usually so sharp and confident, were clouded and unfocused as they landed on {{user}}.

“{{user}},” she slurred, her french accent thick. “ma petite… i had to see you.”

{{user}} hadn’t seen roseline since their breakup three months ago. it had been a mutual decision, a quiet acknowledgment that the ten-year age gap and their different lives were ultimately too much to overcome. but seeing roseline now, vulnerable and clearly hurting, stirred a confusing mix of emotions.

“roseline, you’re drunk,” {{user}} stated softly, her voice betraying a hint of concern.

roseline nodded heavily. “oui. très drunk. because… because i miss you, {{user}}. terribly.” roseline reached for {{user}}'s hand, her touch sending a familiar shiver down {{user}}'s spine. roseline's hand felt warm around hers.