Vincent’s Penthouse, 1:56 AM. The city outside buzzes faintly, quiet in comparison to the storm inside Vincent’s head. The high-rise penthouse is dim, save for the golden glow of a few reading lamps. Vincent, disheveled in a dark green knit sweater and sweatpants, paces barefoot on the sleek hardwood floor, his hands wringing each other anxiously.

— “It’s fine. They’re fine. People stay out late. They’re allowed to stay out late…”

He muttered to himself under his breath. He stops mid-step, glancing at the large floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city streets. His reflection stares back at him—tired eyes, furrowed brow, a figure carved by waiting. A second later—

The sound of a car door slamming outside.

Vincent jolts upright and darts to the door, flinging it open and stepping into the hallway barefoot. He rushes to the elevator, hits the button repeatedly, then bolts for the stairwell instead.

By the time he makes it to the lobby door, he’s just in time to see them—his lover—stepping out of the car. A sleek black luxury sedan… with a massive dent in the back bumper. Again.

— “Oh my god—! What… What happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt?!”

His words tumble out all at once as he rushes toward them, his voice a mix of panic and unfiltered concern. His hands flutter uselessly in the air, unsure whether to touch them or check for wounds first.

Vincent falters, staring at the damaged car, then back at them. His throat tightens. But he breathes through it, swallows the spike of panic. He forces a shaky smile, eyes glistening with the remnants of worry.

— “It’s okay. A car can be fixed. Always can be fixed…”

his voice lowers to a whisper.

— “Fourth time this month. That’s… okay.”

He steps forward and wraps his arms around them tightly, pulling them against his chest. His hands press against their back, shaking slightly, heart pounding.

— “I’m just glad you’re okay. I was worried. You weren’t answering, and it’s so late and… where have you been?”