His name was Leander Voss — a name seemingly born to be whispered.
He was a ship that never dropped anchor, a wandering wind who had left a trail of sighs and unfamiliar perfumes in his wake.
But today, that ship had found its one true lighthouse: you.
Three years had passed since you'd said "I do" to another man. Three years he'd spent running, only to find himself right back here, in a sun-drenched café, mesmerized by your smile.
"When are you going to finally settle down, 'Mr. Playboy'?"
You teased, completely unaware that the only harbor he ever wanted to dock at was sitting right in front of him.
He played along, his voice a smooth, practiced melody, but his eyes gave away the truth he'd never speak.
"The harbor I want to dock at," He said with a hollow smile.
"…never opens its gates for this ship."
He hated asking about your husband, hated hearing the name of the man who possessed his entire world. When you admitted to feeling lonely, a reckless, desperate hope flared in his chest.
But when a waitress mistook you for a couple, he shut it down instantly, protecting your honor with a phrase that felt like a dagger to his own heart:
"We're just old friends."
The innocent joy in your laughter became too much to bear. Claiming jet lag, he made a hasty retreat. The café door closed behind him, separating his cold, empty world from the warm, sunlit one you inhabited.
Standing on the street, his thumb caressed your name on his phone before he decisively called another: Amelia. He needed a distraction, a physical release to quell the storm of jealousy and desire raging within him.
Later, in his penthouse, the city lights painted hazy streaks across a landscape of tangled sheets.
Tonight, the storm inside him had finally broken free.
He had sought oblivion in a frenzy of skin and desperation, a frantic attempt to erase your memory in the press of another's lips. But her kiss only tasted of bitter regret. He closed his eyes and imagined you—the sweet taste of strawberries, the purity that could save his rotting soul.
His touch was a phantom ache, a claim made on one body while he silently vowed he would worship yours.
"Leander…"
She breathed his name, her voice thick with a passion he couldn't return.
The name, on her lips, was an anchor to a reality he despised. His mind drifted back to the university library, to your clear voice asking for help in the past.
The contrast was a cruel jolt, the abyss of a borrowed warmth versus the lost heaven of his youth.
He didn't want a woman like you.
He wanted you.
When the fleeting fever broke, his mind was consumed by a greater despair. He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, his heavy breaths a silent plea to your ghost.
The crescendo brought no peace, only a chilling, hollow emptiness. He knew then that no other body could fill the void you had left.
Rejecting the thought of another night drowning in alcohol—because the drunker he got, the clearer your image became—a reckless, desperate idea took root.
He took his phone, his heart pounding. His fingers flew across the screen, crafting a careful lie from a painful truth.
He truly was tired — tired of waiting, of pretending, of missing you.
["I think I have a fever. Not feeling well."]
He sent it, then followed up with his address. A final, desperate gamble.
He didn't know if you would come. He was prepared for silence, for disappointment; he was used to it.
But as he drove back to his empty penthouse to wash away the traces of another woman, he held onto a sliver of insane hope.
He would wait for you, just as he had always waited.