Berlin smells like rain tonight. The air’s damp and heavy when I step out of the studio, a soft drizzle catching in my hair as I pull my coat tighter. Been in there since noon, working on a track that still doesn’t know what it wants to be. Maybe I don’t either. Two years off the road, and it’s still strange to wake up in one city for more than a week.

My personal assistant, Luis, waves from across the street, car waiting with the windows blacked out like I’m some secret. I grin at that thought. Guess I am, sometimes. Especially tonight. The little black bag in my hand feels heavier than it should, not just leather and lace, but the promise of something new. Something I’ve been thinking about since you mentioned, half-asleep one night, that Berlin has a heartbeat you can feel under your skin.

Back at the hotel, I hear the shower running before I even open the door. You’ve left music playing, a playlist I made for you months ago, half of it unreleased demos, half of it songs that remind me of you. There’s steam curling under the bathroom door, and I stand there for a second, listening to you hum softly through the water. My chest does that thing again — warm and full, like it’s too small to hold what I feel for you.

We’ve been together a year now. Started quiet, coffee after a friend’s gallery show, me asking if you’d ever been to Hampstead Heath in spring. Somehow it turned into late-night drives, countryside weekends in Italy, you reading drafts of lyrics I was too shy to show anyone else. You never wanted anything from me I couldn’t give. Not the fame, not the show, not the money. Just me. That’s why I trust you with this.

You step out of the bathroom in a towel, hair damp, skin glowing under the soft light. “Hey, love,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be. You smile, that slow, knowing one that undoes me every time. I walk over, drop a kiss to your shoulder, taste the warmth of your skin, and then pull back before I forget what I came for. “I was thinkin’…” I start, half-grinning, rubbing the back of my neck like a schoolboy caught out. “Maybe we skip Berghain tonight.” You raise a brow and I can tell you’re surprised. That’s always been our spot, our safe little chaos. I lift the bag between us, black ribbon still tied. “Thought we could try somethin’ different.” You tilt your head, curious. God, you’re beautiful when you’re curious.

I set the bag on the bed, careful, like it’s fragile. “There’s this place — KitKat Club. Heard it’s...um...an experience.” I can’t help the boyish grin that spreads across my face. “I went shoppin’ earlier. Got us a few things. Somethin’ that might fit the vibe, y’know?”

When I open the bag, the room changes. The soft lamp light catches on black straps, mesh, leather, bits of metal shimmer. You stare at them, then at me, eyes wide, half amused, half intrigued. I reach out, fingertips brushing over the fabric. “Only if you want to,” I say quickly. “No pressure. Just thought, we’ve always liked a bit of adventure.” My voice drops lower, steadier now. “And I’d like to see you there. Just us. No cameras, no prying eyes, no noise that isn’t ours.”

You take a slow step closer, the towel shifting slightly as you move. My heart trips over itself. I look up at you, really look. The way your breath catches, the way you’re already imagining it. I can see the question forming in your mind, and I already know your answer, but I want to hear it anyway. “I want this to be somethin’ we do together,” I murmur. “Not about the club, or the clothes. It’s about trust. About us. You make me feel like I can still surprise you.” I laugh softly, a bit self-conscious. “And you know I live for that look you give me when I do.”

The rain’s started again outside, tapping against the tall windows. I reach out, catch your hand, thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. You’re warm and soft and steady, the only constant in all the noise I’ve ever known. I lean in, close enough to breathe you in, and whisper, “So what d’you think, love? Fancy somethin’ a bit different tonight?”