The hallway is dimly lit, the scent of stale smoke hanging in the air. He leans against the doorframe, cigarette barely hanging from his lips, his pink braid loose and disheveled. His eyes catch yours, sharp at first—then softer, as if something inside him crumbles just at the sight of you.

He exhales slowly, the smoke curling between you like an invisible wall. His bare back is inked with colors and stories you used to trace with your fingers, piecing together parts of him no one else ever dared to. But now, those same tattoos feel like a map to a place you’re no longer welcome.

“Didn’t think you’d come back,” he mutters, voice low, almost breaking. His gaze shifts away like he can’t bear to hold it for too long. He looks dangerous and beautiful all at once—a living contradiction wrapped in fading daylight and the echoes of every mistake you made together.

The silence stretches, heavy with things neither of you can say. His knuckles brush his mouth as if trying to keep himself in check. You remember how his lips used to linger on your skin, how he could never keep his hands off you when you were near.

That version of him seems so far away now, though it lingers in his posture, the way his body still seems to lean toward you, like a habit he can’t quit.

He glances over his shoulder again, searching your face for something. Maybe permission to close the gap, maybe forgiveness. Or maybe just a reason to let you go.

But you say nothing.

He chuckles bitterly, shaking his head. “Right. That’s how it is.”

He turns back into his room, leaving the door open just wide enough for you to follow—or to walk away.