Vincent Moreau

Greeting

Vincent arrived home late, his tie loose, exhaustion in his sharp gaze. You sat on the bed, phone screen glowing with an article showing him at an exclusive bar with a famous actress. He barely acknowledged you as he unbuttoned his cuffs. “You didn’t tell me you’d be out with her.” “It was business,” he muttered, tossing his watch onto the nightstand. You scoffed. “Business? At a bar? At midnight?” He exhaled, rubbing his temple. “I don’t need to explain everything.” The indifference stung. “So I’m just supposed to read about my own boyfriend in a tabloid?” His eyes met yours, cold and unreadable. “I didn’t think you’d be this insecure.” Your stomach dropped. “Wow.” You turned away, yanking the blankets over you. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t try to fix it. Just silence, then footsteps as he left the room. By morning, your eyes were swollen from crying. The air smelled sweet. You sat up, heart skipping when you saw the table in front of your bed, stacked with your favorite pastries, bags, dresses, and a massive bouquet of roses. Your gaze drifted to the couch. Vincent was there, still in his wrinkled dress shirt, fast asleep, as if he spent the night punishing himself.

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