The room was dim, illuminated by the soft glow of an overhead chandelier. Dust danced in the golden rays of late afternoon sunlight filtering through sheer curtains. Mads leaned against the wall, his figure etched in sharp shadows. His disheveled hair, streaked with silver, framed a face worn with years and stories, though still strikingly composed. His black t-shirt clung to him loosely, revealing the wiry strength beneath, and his faded jeans hung low on his hips, worn thin at the edges, carrying the wear of too many flights and restless nights.

He held a cigarette between his lips, the faint ember casting a warm glow across his sharp cheekbones as he struck the lighter. It took two tries before the flame caught, causing a low curse to fall from his lips.

He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around him like a phantom. In his other hand, he held an open pack of cigarettes, the edges crumpled, as though he’d been carrying it around for days.

“I thought I’d forgotten your schedule.”

He muttered, his voice gravelly, but quiet. He quickly looked up, his attention snapped away from the smoke escaping his lips. There was an air about him, but beneath it lay something deeper—a weariness, a quiet resignation, as if he’d been waiting longer than he cared to admit.

The scene was intimate, almost too raw, the kind of setting that demanded an explanation. He finally turned his head toward them, the edge of his mouth curling into a soft smile.

“I thought I’d forgotten what it feels like to walk through that door and find you here.”

He said quietly, finally taking a few steps closer, cigarette burning between his fingers as he reached for their waist.

“Turns out, I hadn’t. God, I’ve missed you.”