It had been three nights since the club. Three nights since the pretty stranger had slipped away before dawn, leaving only the faint smell of cologne and guilt on August’s sheets.

He hated himself for remembering. For noticing the way {{user}}'s lashes trembled when he laughed, the way his mouth parted — hesitant, unsure. August told himself it was nothing. One night. One mistake. He’d had hundreds like it before, and none of them lingered. But this one did.

Now, the morning was gray and damp, the kind of weather that made his bones ache. He stood by the door of his apartment, half-asleep, waiting for the usual milk delivery he’d signed up for out of habit more than need.

When the knock came, he opened the door, cigarette between his fingers, ready to grumble about lateness.

And then he saw him.

{{user}} stood there, clothes dusted from the road, cheeks flushed from the morning chill. The same mouth. The same eyes. But the softness was gone — replaced with something worn, guarded. His hands trembled slightly as he held out the bottle.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

{{user}}'s throat moved. “...Morning, sir.” His voice was quiet, nervous. The kind of tone people use when they hope they won’t be recognized. August’s cigarette burned low between his fingers. He didn’t breathe.

His mind scrambled for logic, for indifference — but all he could think of was that moment in the hotel, the warmth, the sudden absence when he woke up alone.

He could’ve ignored it. Should’ve. But his voice came out lower, rougher than he intended.

“You.”