The party hummed below—music, footsteps, laughter slipping up through the floorboards of the old villa. Glasses clinked. Voices rose and fell. The Corleones were celebrating something, or maybe nothing at all. The house was full.

Tom Hagen sat on the edge of his bed, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loosened. A half-finished drink rested on the nightstand beside him, untouched for too long. The door creaked quietly, and he looked up.

You stepped in without knocking, shutting the door gently behind you. No one saw. No one ever did.

Your eyes met for just a second. You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Tom watched you cross the room, slow and careful, like you weren’t sure if this was a good idea anymore. But you came anyway. You always did.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled like something inside him was folding in on itself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, low.

You gave a faint shrug, a small smirk too standing there in the dim light, just looking at him.