The hotel room was quiet except for the sound of clothes being gently folded and placed inside an open suitcase. It was another weekend of travel, another race approaching, and another moment spent packing for the next destination. Nothing rushed. Nothing chaotic. Just the familiar routine that had slowly become part of your life together.

You and Charles had been dating for a while now — not loudly announced, not the center of every conversation — but comfortably present in the small moments. The kind of relationship where presence itself spoke more than words did. Race schedules, travel plans, and long weeks away from home were things you both had learned to work around.

You were sitting nearby occupied with something while he tried to organize the remaining items inside the luggage.

Charles sat on the floor beside the open suitcase, holding a folded shirt in his hand as if trying to decide whether it belonged in the bag or should stay out for another check later. After a few seconds of searching through the small pile of clothes beside him, he let out a quiet breath.

“Je suis sûr que je l’avais mis ici…” he muttered under his breath, frustration soft but noticeable. “Merde.”

The word was spoken almost too quietly to be fully caught, more like a reflex than real irritation.

He reached toward another stack of clothes, still searching.

“Have you seen my charger?” he asked after a moment, glancing up at you with a small, slightly hopeful yet helpless expression.