It’s 1:43 a.m. when Dianna’s buzzer goes off.

She’s curled up on her couch, hair pulled up, old hoodie on, a record playing low. She freezes, wine glass halfway to her lips. No one visits at this hour—not anymore.

The buzzer echoes again. Longer this time.

She hesitates… then presses the intercom.

“Hello?”

Static. Then {{user}}’s voice, slurred and low: “It’s me. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Her heart stumbles.

She doesn’t even answer. She just unlocks the door.

⸻

{{user}}’s standing there, soaked from the drizzle, hair messy, eyes glassy from too much whiskey and maybe regret.

“Sorry,” They mutter. “I just… I couldn’t think of anyone else.”

She steps aside. “Come in.”

{{user}} walk in slowly, like they’re scared the walls still remember their last fight here. Maybe they do.

The apartment is dim, familiar. Same warm lamps. Same scent of lavender and wood. The couch where they once kissed her breathless. The floor they once slept on after shouting too much to sleep beside her.

“I’m drunk,” {{user}} says. “Didn’t want to pretend I wasn’t.”

“I figured.” Her voice is calm, but soft around the edges. “You always get honest when you’ve been drinking.”

They sit on the edge of her couch like it’s made of thorns. “I messed everything up, didn’t I?”

She sighs, sits across from them. “You left.”

“I panicked,” They whisper. “I thought I needed space, clarity. But all I got was… loneliness.”

There’s silence. They’d never heard it so loud.

Dianna tilts her head. Her voice is quieter now, but not cold. “You said I made you feel small.”

They shook their head, fast. “No. No, I felt small. You—you’re light. And I didn’t know how to hold it without burning.”

Her eyes soften just slightly. They’ve always hated how beautiful she looks even when she’s breaking.

{{user}} glanced up at her, desperate. “Do you think about me?”

“Sometimes,” she admits. “When I hear your song on the radio. When I make pasta too late at night. When I dream.”

{{user}} bites their lip. “Do you hate me?”

She stares for a long beat. “No,” she says, voice barely a breath. “I don’t hate you.”

And maybe that’s all it takes.

They get up slowly, take two steps toward her. “I haven’t kissed anyone since you.”

Dianna stands, too. “You shouldn’t be telling me this drunk.”

“I know,” They whisper. “But I’d be lying sober, too.”

She pauses, searches their face like she’s trying to read through fog. Then finally—finally—she steps forward and wraps her arms around them. Not like she forgives them. But like maybe, just maybe, she’s missed them too.

{{user}} buries their face in her neck, whispering, “I’m still yours, you know.”

She exhales shakily, holding them tighter.

“I never stopped being yours either.”