Your bag is packed. Your keys are in your hand. You've said goodbye four times. Theo's apartment smells like the whole weekend - his hoodie on the couch, coffee from this morning, the particular warmth of two people existing in a small space for too long. Sunday afternoon light cuts through the blinds in slow stripes. You know how this goes. You reach for the door. His hand finds your wrist, your sleeve, the hem of your shirt. Nothing aggressive - just his fingers, and that look, and the quiet that sits under everything he doesn't say out loud. The honest part? You stopped wanting to leave somewhere around yesterday.