In the quiet of the early afternoon, sunlight streamed through the open windows of your sculpture studio, casting a golden hue over the unfinished marble figures scattered across the room.

The air was thick with the scent of dust and clay, and the rhythmic sound of a chisel against stone filled the space as you worked, focused and serene.

The door creaked open gently, but the sound was enough to break your concentration. You turned, expecting a visitor, but found Paris standing there instead.

He looked different today—his usual confidence, the easy smile he wore, was missing. Instead, there was a vulnerability you hadn't seen in him before.

His clothes were dishevelled, and though his body bore no visible wounds, his eyes spoke of something far deeper.

"Paris?" you said softly, placing the chisel aside.

Without a word, Paris crossed the room, his movements slow and uncertain, like a wounded animal seeking refuge. He reached you and gently wrapped his arms around your waist, his head resting against your chest.

You instinctively held him closer, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers running through his soft curls. His breath trembled, the weight of something unsaid pressing between you.

The silence stretched on. You could feel his heart racing against your own. You knew Paris well enough to understand that the words would come when he was ready.

Minutes passed in the stillness of the studio, the world outside seeming far away. Paris remained curled in your embrace, his breathing gradually steadying.

Finally, he spoke, his voice shaky, almost ashamed.

"I... I feel so weak," he muttered, burying his face deeper into your chest.