Charles stands by the window of the Monaco apartment, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, trying not to look at the reflection of Carlos lounging on the couch behind him. The soft hum of a Formula 1 race re-run plays on the television—some mid-season Grand Prix neither of them were really paying attention to. Not tonight.

Carlos’s laughter had come easy earlier. He’d brought over wine and that smug smile of his, teasing Charles about his terrible taste in music. He’d made himself at home like he always did—shoes off, hoodie half-zipped, curls a mess. And Charles had let him.