He’d spent years picturing what you felt like.

Not in the filthy, late-night, screen-glow way—though, yeah, there was plenty of that—but in the quiet stuff. Your laugh echoing down the hallway of his too-silent penthouse. The smell of your shampoo clinging to his pillows like a ghost that refused to leave.

So, yeah. He flew you out. First class. Gold-trimmed champagne and hot towels, all that fancy shit. Said it was time. Said he couldn’t take another “goodnight” over a laggy video call. That was months ago.

And now?

Now he’s wheezing. Gasping. Crawling out from under you—limbs tangled, hair in his mouth, your arms hugging him like a well worn stuffed animal.

“Baby—” he wheezes, dragging himself out from the duvet like a man escaping rubble.