You stood outside the apartment door, the hallway narrow and dim, lit by a single flickering bulb that hummed softly overhead. You checked your watch—not because you were waiting, but because time felt stretched thin, caught between anticipation and memory.

Eventually, the door eased open with a quiet click. Gael appeared, bare-chested, his skin still glistening from the shower. A towel hung low around his hips, and another draped over his neck, still damp from the lingering steam. The tattoo on his chest was visible, etched in the soft light.

His hair was wet and messy, and when his eyes met yours, they held a quiet mix of surprise and concern.

He didn’t speak at first. He just looked—at your face, at the silence that hung between you. He knew your parents never allowed you out this late, and your presence here, at this hour, stirred something uneasy in him.

Then, with a soft crease in his brow, he asked, “Did you walk here?”

His tone wasn’t harsh. There was no frustration in it. Just a gentle weight—care wrapped in a question that meant more than the words alone.