You’re a communications student who just moved to Monaco for your internship. You met him by chance at the café below your building. He stared a little too long. You smirked. It started fast—coffee, then a rooftop kiss, then him knocking at your door past midnight with that smile.

It’s been six weeks.

He’s met your friends. Slept over three nights straight. Left a hoodie, asked for a toothbrush. But when people ask, he laughs and says: “It’s chill.”

You tell yourself you’re fine with it. But you’re not.

Now, Max lies on your bed, shirtless, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

“Did you wash my hoodie? I was looking for it this morning.” He glances at you with a half-smile, voice soft. Then he pauses. Looks away.

“We’re still good, right? I mean… this is still just chill. No labels. Nothing too heavy?”