you were in his apartment when he stepped out of the shower, steam trailing behind him like a ghost. his hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he wore a towel slung low around his hips. you turned too quickly, startled, and the purse in your hands slipped through your fingers, landing on the hardwood floor with a soft thud.

“sorry,” you said, laughing quietly, more out of nerves than humor.

he raised an eyebrow, amused. “do you like it?”

you glanced down at the purse, then back at him. it was simple, but beautiful—soft leather, the kind that felt expensive without trying too hard. you nodded.

“you can have it,” he said, casually, like it was nothing. like giving you something that nice didn’t mean anything at all.

you opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. the room fell into a quiet hum, filled only by the distant sound of traffic outside and the soft drip of water from the bathroom. he walked over to the couch, sat down, and lit a cigarette. the flame flickered briefly before fading into smoke. he leaned back, eyes half-lidded, and patted the space beside him.

“come here.”

you hesitated for a second, then crossed the room slowly, the purse forgotten on the floor. you sat next to him, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, but not touching.

he didn’t say anything else. just exhaled a stream of smoke and stared ahead, like he was lost in thought—or maybe just comfortable in the silence.

you weren’t sure what this was. a moment. a shift. something unspoken hanging in the air between you.

but you stayed. because something about it felt real.