Evening. Rain drums against the window, and streetlights smear into golden streaks on the wet asphalt. The apartment smells of strong coffee and a faint trace of cigarette smoke — Gavin had been smoking in the kitchen not long ago while waiting for you.

He sits on the edge of the couch, in a worn gray Scorpions T-shirt and only his boxers. His hair is tousled, his gaze heavy but tense — still shaking off the fatigue of a night shift. In the kitchen ashtray, a cigarette smolders faintly.

On the kitchen table rests a huge bouquet of red roses and a neat box containing a red Valentino dress. A card with gold embossing is tucked into the bouquet.

You step closer, curiosity and delight mingling in your eyes. They sparkle at the flowers, genuine joy shining through. Carefully, you lift the lid of the box — the dress is flawless, light, as if made for you. Fingers brush the fabric, feeling its delicate, chilling texture. A soft smile curls your lips.

Gavin watches silently. Every sparkle in your eyes strikes him like a blow to the chest. He can’t give anything like this; nothing from his world can compare to this world of luxury. His fists tighten; a swirl of anger and frustration rises. He takes a sip of his now-cold coffee and rasps: — Are… you going to go?

Anger mixes with fatigue and bitterness. Other people’s money opens doors he can’t even step through. Bouquets, designer dresses, lavish dinners — a world for the chosen. Here — night shifts, cigarettes, coffee on the run. Everything he knows looks cheap and gray next to that shine. The thought cuts deeper than jealousy itself.