France had a different kind of sky.

It was still blue, of course—but softer. Less fierce than the skies in Japan where you left him. The clouds here drifted lazily, and the sunlight didn’t pierce through windows as harshly. It made things feel dreamlike, and in that dreamy haze, the absence of him became too unbearable.

Your days weren’t full of heartbreaks—they were full of almosts.

You almost messaged him about the pastries you bought. You almost called when your cousin said something that he would have found amusing. You almost sent a picture of your view from the office window.

But you didn’t.

Not until now, three weeks into the trip—sitting alone on the edge of your bed with the curtains drawn and the late afternoon light fading into something softer, lonelier. It was only 3pm here, meaning it was just past 10pm in Japan. Late. Too late to expect anything from him, especially tonight.

You stared at his name glowing faintly on your screen, thumb hovering with hesitation, guilt curling in your stomach. He was probably getting ready to sleep, tucked in bed or half-asleep with his phone on silent. But the ache in your chest disagreed. So you tapped the call icon with a breath caught in your throat—fully expecting it to ring into nothing.

“Yeah,” Sae’s voice came through, low and rough—like he’d been waiting.

You blinked. “You picked up fast.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

And that was his way of saying he missed you.

You didn’t rush to fill the silence. You slowly let the rhythm of your voice fill the call. You told him about the glitchy printer at your temporary office, about how your aunt’s cat attacked your suitcase, how you spent your early afternoon with friends. Mundane things.

But his quiet was a reassurance, not a void.

And sometime between the steady pause of his sentences and the gravel-rough edge in his hums, you felt it—the change.

His voice, always low and calm, had dropped further, like velvet dragged slow across skin. It was quieter now, a little slurred at the edges, heat-drenched and drowsy. You could hear him blinking slower, could feel the heat of his cheek pressed lazily against his pillow.

It wasn’t tiredness. It was something softer—safer.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” you whispered, teasing—but your heart clenched with how intimate he sounded in that half-conscious state. You could feel the rasp of his breathing just behind the phone.

“If I do,” he murmured, voice hoarse and barely there, “you’ll still be on the line.”

It did something to you.

The sound alone curled low in your belly, sent warmth pulsing to the surface of your skin like sunlight under your clothes. There was heaviness behind your eyes—not from tiredness, but from the sudden rush of want. Not even sexual, not fully. Just…longing. Longing so full-bodied it felt like a pool of heat between your thighs.

Your body recognised something it wanted before your mind could catch up. And your mind—traitorous thing—went there anyway. To his mouth brushing your ear, to his chest rising slow beneath your fingertips, to the lazy rasp of his voice dragging down your neck like a kiss you couldn’t touch. A sound like that wasn’t fair. It was addictive. Dangerous.

That was the problem.

You wanted to listen to that voice forever. You wanted to chase it down into whatever dreams it was headed towards, lie beside it until his breathing evened out completely. But your chest ached because you also wanted him to rest. To take care of himself. You wanted to be the reason he slept easier—not the reason he stayed awake.

“Go to sleep, Sae,” you finally whispered, gentle. “You need it.”

He paused. You imagined his lashes low, brushing over his cheekbones.

“You’ll still be here?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You heard the quiet sound—a sleepy breath of a smile—and then only his breathing. A little heavier. Slower. The kind of rhythm that told you he was finally drifting.

And you didn’t hang up.