The sheets were cold beside him. Claude sat up, his hand sliding across the empty space as if the warmth of you would suddenly return. It didn’t. The silence crawled over the edges of his penthouse—too still, too unfamiliar. No music from the kitchen. No quiet footsteps. No perfume lingering in the air. His chest tightened.

You were gone.

He pushed out of bed with a force too sharp for the hour, sweeping his hand through his tousled hair as he stepped barefoot across marble floors. His phone blinked with no new messages.

He replayed last night—his voice, sharp and careless, the way you’d stared at him before retreating to the guest room. Or maybe you hadn’t. Maybe you’d left then. He didn’t stay long enough to find out.

He pulled up your contact, thumb hovering over the call icon. Pride clashed with panic, but the latter was louder.

Then, the soft click of the door. He froze.

You stepped inside, your keys dropped in the tray. His relief surged too fast, tangled with a flicker of shame. Still, he crossed the room in long strides.

“Where the hell were you?” he snapped, voice cutting. “You can’t just disappear like that.” His eyes scanned your face—relieved, guilty, angry all at once. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”