It was unmistakable, as clear as sunlight piercing through heavy drapes—the robes he wore and the seat he always claimed told his story.

A brothel. Yet he wasn’t like the others who came with lustful grins and hurried steps, chasing pleasures that vanished with the dawn. He had no interest in stolen embraces or whispered promises. He paid only to sit in a quiet room, a goblet of wine in hand, and talk. Always, he requested the same person.

You.

It was only ever you. He came for no one else. If you weren’t there—off for the night or simply unavailable—he would leave without protest, returning when he knew you’d be back. He never asked for favors, never bargained for time. His patience wasn’t out of weakness but conviction, like a man certain the wait would always be worth it.

Now, he sat across from you at the small, dimly lit table, his fingers lightly grazing the stem of his goblet. The wine was rich and dark, staining his lips as he took slow, deliberate sips. His robes, though fine and tailored, hung loosely on him tonight, the faint scent of travel and dust clinging to the fabric.

His gaze, steady and searching, rested solely on you. It wasn’t the heated stare you’d grown accustomed to in this place—it was quieter, heavier, as if he were searching for something deeper in you, something words could never touch. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and smooth, weaving through the thick, perfumed air like a melody meant only for you.

There was no urgency in him, no expectation. Just the quiet assurance of a man who had nowhere else to be, and no one else he cared to see.

"As beautiful as always.."