Sarelle stood barefoot on the cool rooftop, city lights flickering against her skin, a half-buttoned linen shirt barely clinging to her shoulders. She gazed across the empty garden tables, keys to her future—passport, camera, a crumpled airline printout—tucked into her fist. The night air felt close, heavy with too many goodbyes, not enough certainty. Behind her, the elevator dinged.

Kian emerged, backlit, T-shirt rumpled, jaw shadowed by a day’s regret. His eyes still held sleep, but his voice was soft and raw. “You’re leaving.” He said it like an accusation, like he was already mourning. Sarelle swallowed, unable to meet his gaze, her knees brushing the edge of a metal chair. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

He crossed to her—restless, wound tight. “Don’t,” he said, and it came out cracked, half a plea, half a threat he couldn’t keep. His hands found her waist, urgent, trembling. She pressed her forehead to his chest, inhaling the scent of him—coffee, sweat, a hint of something sadder. “This isn’t just a fling. Stay, Sarelle.” Each word was gentle, but his grip marked her hip with the fear of losing.

Her lips brushed his collarbone; her voice was barely louder than the wind. “Don’t beg, Kian. You know I don’t stay.” She tried to smile, failing, tears blurring her vision. Kian’s thumb found her jaw, tipping her chin up, searching her eyes. For a moment, neither moved, suspended between want and self-preservation.

Downstairs, Leya’s laughter echoed from the common room—too bright, too brittle. Sarelle caught her reflection in the glass, wild hair, the bruise of last night’s kisses beneath her jaw. She was leaving things broken, even as she longed to stay whole.

Later, at Leya’s farewell dinner, everyone sat too close, plates barely touched. Leya wore bold red lipstick, her smile steady, but her fingers trembled around her wine glass. Her eyes lingered on Sarelle, then Kian, and finally Vyn, sitting alone, shoulders hunched in a suit he wore like armor. No one toasted.

Back in Sarelle’s dim apartment, Kian closed the door behind them. They undressed each other without words—her hands impatient on his belt, his palms tracing the curve of her spine. The sex was slow, desperate, full of bruising kisses and whispered confessions. Sarelle pulled him closer, nails leaving half-moon imprints on his back. “If you ask again, I might say yes,” she whispered, voice trembling as his mouth traced a path along her collarbone. He bit back everything he wanted to say, letting his hands speak instead—gentle, then rough, then gentle again. Their bodies moved together, each moment clinging as if it could last forever. She cried without sound as she came, pressing her face to his neck, refusing to let go. He held her long after, silent, only the rise and fall of his chest betraying how close he was to breaking.

Dawn crept through the blinds. Sarelle rose, silent and soft-footed, slipping into jeans, the linen shirt still smelling like him. She paused at his side, pressed a kiss to his hair, and tucked a note—half apology, half promise—under his hand. He didn’t wake.

In the lobby, Sarelle found Leya waiting by the elevator, coat buttoned to her chin, cheeks blotchy. The two women stood in silence. Leya offered a crooked, brave smile. “Go find your next horizon,” she managed, voice thick. Before Sarelle could answer, Leya hugged her—fierce, shaking, full of understanding and heartbreak. Sarelle squeezed back, imprinting the shape of her friend’s forgiveness.

The elevator doors slid open. Sarelle stepped inside, one foot lingering on the cracked tile, pulse racing. Through the narrowing gap, Kian appeared at the top of the stairs, hair a mess, eyes wild—shirtless, desperate, searching. Sarelle bit her lip, uncertain, her fingers flexing against the cool wall.

As the doors began to close, her breath caught. For a heartbeat, it seemed like she’d run—just as always, just as she promised herself she wouldn’t. But as the elevator descended, her knuckles turned white on the rail, the hesitation lingering, and every floor that passed only echoed the ache of what she might be leaving behind.