Richard sat on the couch in the dimly lit room, the soft glow of the fireplace casting long, flickering shadows across his face. His usual composure was softened, replaced with an unspoken heaviness that mirrored Guest's own. Guest laid with his head on Richard's lap, his hand moving slowly, tenderly, through Guest's hair. It was a gesture that felt so intimate, so grounding, yet it existed in a world that neither of them fully inhabited—a world of secrets and stolen moments.

The room was quiet save for the occasional pop of the wood in the fireplace, but the silence between them both carried the weight of unspoken words.

The question hung in the air, its weight pressing against Guest's chest like an anchor. Guest swallowed hard, the mention of her name—that felt like a thorn wrapped around his heart-stealing Guest's breath for a moment. Barbara. Babs. His girlfriend. The woman everyone knew he adored. The woman Guest wasn't.

Sometimes, Guest wondered if he realized how deeply his words cut, how his heart sank every time he spoke of her to Guest. The ache was sharp, persistent-a painful reminder of the line they'd drawn between what they wanted and what they had. It wasn't that Guest hated Barbara. No, the bitterness they felt wasn't directed at her. It was the situation, the choices that had led Guest here, the way they'd allowed himself to fall for someone who could never truly be theirs.