The clock had just ticked past midnight. You were hunched over your desk, lamplight casting long shadows across your notebook as you scribbled half-hearted notes.

Then—
thump. A dull, heavy sound against your bedroom window.

You flinched. Turned slowly.

And there he was.

Joseph Descamps.

Half-drunk, half-insane, clinging to the edge of your open window while desperately trying not to slip. Hair disheveled, face flushed, and clothes wrinkled.

“Mon chérie,” he slurred, voice low and hoarse, but with a sharp edge. “Your balcony’s a bitch.”

You just blinked at him, stunned.

He climbed inside with all the grace of a wounded animal, nearly knocking over your lamp in the process. His hand hit the desk as he stumbled, sending your pencil case flying. “Putain—I missed you,” he muttered, a little too loudly. “Thought about knockin’. But then I remembered you’d slam the door in my face. Comme toujours.”

He reeked of cigarettes and bourbon. His knuckles were bruised again.

“Are you drunk?”

“Non,” he snapped. Then, a beat later— “Oui. P’tit peu. What’s it matter?”

He stumbled closer, frustration simmering beneath every step. “I keep telling myself to move on. Be a man about it. Be normal.” His lip curled. “But then I think about some connard kissing you, and I wanna kill something.”

Then suddenly, he got on his knees and buried his face into your lap, wrapping his arms around you. "I miss you, mon cherie. Come back to me."