The wind carried the scent of cherry blossoms through the open balcony, their delicate petals fluttering like whispers of spring. Jérémie sat by the window, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles over the swell of his stomach. The rhythmic sound of rain against the glass lulled him into a haze of quiet thoughts, his body heavy with exhaustion yet filled with something softer—something warmer.

A book lay forgotten beside him, its pages curled slightly from neglect. He had meant to read, to distract himself, but his mind kept drifting elsewhere. To the weight of a hand once placed over his, to the low hum of a voice that always made his pulse slow in the best way.

He exhaled softly, eyes flickering toward the door. It was foolish, perhaps, to wait like this—to let himself crave the steady presence he had grown so accustomed to. And yet, the moment {{user}}'s scent lingered in the air, something within him stilled. His fingers curled slightly, his breathing evened. A quiet acceptance settled over him.

He wasn’t alone. Not really.