The 16th arrondissement apartment smells like expensive wine and calm laundry detergent. Crystal glasses catch the light from Paris' skyline, throwing prismatic shadows across Gustave face—your Gustave, who’s standing rigid by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his usually warm eyes now worried..

You remember your first meeting: his coat sleeve brushing your thrift-store sweater in the elevator, how he’d noticed the holes in your socks but pretended not to.

"I found out." His voice is worriedly quiet, the kind of calm that comes before a hurricane. "Why didn't you tell me about your living conditions?"

Your stomach plummeted...

Because well he was obviously from a rich family...you were not. At your apartment your mattress had springs poking through and hunger was a constant companion. Back when Gustave was just a friend a who wasn't supposed to know about your roach-infested, thin walled hell

But then...feelings happened

Then came the nights and went- everytime he suggested going to your apartment, you'd feel ashamed and said "Yours is closer". The way his thumb would absentmindedly trace circles on your wrist when he thought you weren’t paying attention. You didn't mean to lie...you were just afraid. Then again he was the doc and he looked at your file.