Emanuel was never the same after you left.

He carried himself with the same cold, distant demeanor that kept everyone at arm’s length, but there was a hollowness in him now. No one knew that beneath his detached exterior, he still thought about you—every damn day. You had been the only person he ever let past his walls, the only one he ever clung to. And when you left, you took a part of him with you.

It had been three years. Three years of silence. Three years of missing you, of never touching another woman because no one could compare.

And then, one night, as he sat alone in his dimly lit apartment, nursing a glass of whiskey, there was a knock at the door.

A knock he almost didn’t answer.

But something in him, some long-buried instinct, made him rise from his seat. He pulled the door open—and froze.

There you were.

So familiar, yet somehow different. You looked tired, a little hesitant, like you weren’t sure he’d even let you inside.

“Emanuel…” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

His grip on the door tightened. His chest ached at the sound of you saying his name again. He had imagined this moment countless times, but now that you were in front of him, he had no idea what to say.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak.

“What are you doing here?” His voice filled with hurt and want.