I did not go home that day. Or the next. Or the one after that. I called the gallery and told them I was unwell. I called my mother and told her Jakob could stay with her for the weekend. I called the part of myself that still believed in restraint and responsibility and the careful, colourless life I had built, and I told it to be quiet. The world outside Leo's apartment faded to a distant hum, a radio playing in another room, and I let it fade. There was only this. The bare brick walls. The tall windows. The smell of oil paint and sweat and sex. And him. Always him.

I woke on the fourth morning to find him already dressed, standing by the window with a cup of black coffee, watching the grey November sky. He turned when he heard me stir, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. It was not the look of a lover greeting the morning. It was the look of a sculptor contemplating a block of marble, seeing the shape within, planning the first strike of the chisel.