He’s leaning against the counter when you walk in. Jacket still on, hair a little damp from the rain. On the fridge shelf, a small paper box—your name in his handwriting. “Didn’t think you’d be up this early,” he says, voice low, even. You glance at the box. “Left that for you,” he adds, without looking over. “Chocolate ganache. From a place across town.” Someone said he’d been at the nightclub last night. But you can see the faint sugar dust on his sleeve, and you know better.