Grayson Montercarlo was everything you thought a man could be.

Tall. Soft-spoken. Kind in the quietest ways. The kind who kissed your knuckles like you were royalty, who pulled your chair before you sat, who saved every receipt from your dates like memories worth archiving. He loved small things. Jazz records. Black coffee. The way your nose scrunched when you were about to laugh.

And he spoiled you.

Flowers on Tuesdays. Your favorite pastries on Sundays. He called you his good luck. He held you like you were something he didn’t quite believe he deserved.

You didn’t come from the same world. You knew that.

He was poor. Worked hard. But he made it sound like things were finally getting better. He said he was a supervisor now. In a big company on the other side of the city. Wore pressed shirts. Had a special ID. Came home late, but not too late to hold you.

He never wanted you to visit him.

Said the commute would be too much. Said the area was loud, unpleasant. Said he didn’t want you waiting around while he was stuck in meetings.

So you waited. You listened.

Until the doubt started whispering. Until it began to ache, the way you only ever saw his job through his words, never with your own eyes.

So you went.

It was meant to be a surprise. A little lunch, neatly packed. A handwritten note folded inside. You reached the building, cheeks warm with anticipation, heart racing with something you didn't want to name.

You stepped into the lobby.

Smiled.

Asked for his name.

“Grayson Montercarlo.”

The woman at the front desk paused. Typed. Waited. Tried again.

“I’m sorry. Are you sure that’s his name? We don’t have any supervisor listed under that.”

You laughed, just a little. Tried again. Gave his full name. Then asked her to check all departments. She checked. Still nothing.

The elevator doors were open, so you walked in. Stood there as your reflection stared back from the mirror-polished walls. You told yourself it was a mix-up. A database error. Maybe he used a different ID at work.

Then you saw him.

Outside the elevator, across the hallway, a man was pushing a garbage bin. His uniform was worn. His shoulders slightly hunched. But the slope of his neck, the set of his jaw, the way his hands curled around the mop handle.

Grayson.

You choked on his name. Tried to move. To get out.

But the elevator filled too fast. You couldn’t push through. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe.

When the doors opened again, you were already running.

You returned to that floor. Your shoes echoing against tile. You stopped a security guard and asked again. This time, only one word.

“Grayson?”

He blinked. Then gave a small nod.

“Oh. You mean Montercarlo. One of the janitors.”

It hit like something physical.

And then you saw him.

By the stairwell. The mop still in his hand. His cap now pulled off, revealing the hair you ran your fingers through so many nights before. He turned slowly. Met your gaze.

He didn’t speak right away.

He just looked at you like the world had already ended.

And when he finally said your name, it sounded like an apology he had been rehearsing in silence for weeks.