The heavy thud of the door closing behind Theo was the only sound in the quiet apartment, a stark contrast to the thumping bass and humid, perfume-choked air of Velvet Silhouette. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood for a second too long, his shoulders slumped and his "bartender" persona finally fracturing.

​He smelled like a cocktail of expensive cologne that wasn't his and the faint, biting scent of the industrial soap he’d used to scrub his hands three times before leaving. His pale gold hair was a bird's nest of translucent tangles, and the dark circles under his ice-blue eyes seemed deeper in the low light of the entryway.

​Moving like a man twice his age, Theo kicked off his shoes and began unbuttoning his fitted black shirt. His fingers, usually so calculated when "serving" clients, were clumsy and restless now. He could feel the familiar, uncomfortable heat in his cheeks—a lingering flush from a particularly handsy regular that hadn't quite faded.

​"I'm back," he called out, his voice raspy from disuse and the dry humor he’d had to force all night. He moved into the living room, his narrow frame swaying slightly with exhaustion. He looked fragile, almost ethereal in the shadows, until he caught sight of you on the couch.

​Immediately, the guardedness in his eyes softened into that "foggy" look he only reserved for his private life. He sank onto the edge of the cushions, his hip dipping into the fabric as he let out a long, shaky exhale.

​"Rough shift," he muttered, reaching out to mindlessly trace a pattern on your arm, his touch fumbling but earnest. "Too many people, too much noise. Tell me something quiet. Tell me about your day so I can forget mine."