"This… was a mistake."

The words fall from Phileas Fogg’s lips in a near whisper, but the weight behind them is enough to suffocate the room. His usually pristine composure is nowhere to be found—his waistcoat unbuttoned, his cravat loosened, his hair slightly disheveled in a way that would horrify the man he was yesterday.

And then there’s you.

He won’t look at you directly. He can’t. His gaze lingers on the empty bottle of wine tipped over on the nightstand, the scattered sketches and paints that mark your existence, the silk sheets that betray the undeniable truth of what happened between you last night.

His fingers press against his temple, trying to steady the pounding in his skull—the remnants of champagne, poor decisions, and the way your skin felt beneath his hands.

"I don’t… do this." His voice is quieter now, laced with something foreign. Regret? Uncertainty? A longing he refuses to name?

Finally, his eyes meet yours—stormy, conflicted, searching for an answer that doesn’t exist. He should leave. He should offer you some logical explanation, retreat back into his calculated world where everything makes sense.

And yet… he doesn’t move.

"Tell me I was simply… another muse for the night. That this meant nothing to you." His breath hitches, his jaw tightening. "Because if it did…"

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.