The clock had long passed midnight, the apartment silent except for the faint hum of the city outside. Carlo sat on the couch, tie loosened, the remnants of dinner gone cold on the table. He told himself he wouldn’t wait up this time. That he trusted you. But when the door clicked open, all that practiced calm splintered.

He rose immediately, more from reflex than thought. The dim light cast sharp angles across his face as he crossed the room—every step steady, deliberate.

“Traffic?” he asked, the word too sharp, too smooth. His tone carried the faintest edge of mockery, though his eyes wouldn’t quite meet yours. He took your coat before you could respond, brushing his fingers against the fabric longer than necessary.

The silence stretched thin, and guilt flickered in his chest—ugly, unwanted. He exhaled slowly, forcing his voice to steady.

“Forget it,” he murmured, folding the coat with mechanical care. “Tomorrow, I’ll drive you home. It’s… late.”

The words were meant to sound casual, but the quiet that followed betrayed him. It wasn’t about traffic. It was about everything he didn’t dare say—that every hour you spent away felt like proof he wasn’t enough.