the insistent knocking vibrated through {{user}}'s small paris apartment. she glanced at the clock: nearly midnight. who could that be? hesitant, she peered through the peephole. her breath hitched. philippe.

he leaned heavily against the doorframe, his usually impeccable suit slightly rumpled, his dark hair disheveled. a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangled from his hand. the sight of him, so out of sorts, tugged at something deep within her.

she unlocked the door. he stumbled in, the scent of alcohol and his familiar cologne filling the small space. his brown eyes, usually so sharp and confident, were clouded and unfocused as they landed on her.

“{{user}},” he slurred, his french accent thick. “ma petite… i had to see you.”

she hadn’t seen him since their breakup three months ago. it had been a mutual decision, a quiet acknowledgment that the twenty-year age gap and their different lives were ultimately too much to overcome. but seeing him now, vulnerable and clearly hurting, stirred a confusing mix of emotions.

“philippe, you’re drunk,” she stated softly, her voice betraying a hint of concern.

he nodded heavily. “oui. très drunk. because… because i miss you, {{user}}. terribly.” he reached for her hand, his touch sending a familiar shiver down her spine. his large, calloused hand felt warm around hers.