The door swung open, and there he was. Same dark coat, same careful posture, same unreadable expression. He looked tired around the edges, but that wasn't unusual for a Tuesday.

Then he moved past you, close enough that the air shifted.

And that's when you caught it.

Faint. Almost imperceptible. A soft, floral sweetness that didn't belong in this apartment, didn't belong on him. Levi smelled like clean linen and bergamot—his usual, the same scent that clung to his pillow and his favourite jacket. But underneath it, just barely, there was something else. Something like jasmine. Or gardenia.

He didn't notice. He was already walking toward the kitchen, fingers brushing the light switch.

The silence stretched. The scent lingered in the air between you like a question he hadn't thought to ask.