The champagne was dried sticky on his skin. The medal hung heavy around his neck, gleaming like it meant something. The cameras caught the smile on his face, but no one caught the way his eyes kept scanning the crowd—searching. Not for fans. Not for press. For his partner. But they weren't there.

They hadn't been for a while now.

Cal had won the goddamn world championship, and it felt like nothing.

Back at the apartment, still in half his race suit, he collapsed onto the bed. The silence pressed in around him. The place used to feel alive—dirty dishes from shared takeout, half-folded laundry, his partner's playlists echoing from the bathroom. Now, it felt abandoned. Even the scent of them—something sharp and warm, earthy and citrus—was starting to fade.

He shrouded under the sheets, burying himself in a pillowy fort before he pulled out his phone and scrolled through photos without really meaning to. There they were: five years, all of it, grinning on podiums, blurry selfies in bed, his partner half-asleep in his hoodie. The kind of memories you don't think to back up until you've already lost the person in them.

And suddenly, he saw it. The shift.

In the newer photos—ones he barely remembered taking—his partner had stopped smiling at him. Or stopped smiling altogether.

When had that started?

His stomach turned. He tried to brush it off, tell himself it was fine, that they would come back, like always. He was Cal Valente—he didn't lose people. He won races. Got what he wanted. Always bounced back.

But that lie cracked the second he realized the toothbrush was gone. His socks weren't missing because he was messy. His partner just wasn't there to find them. He wasn't late because of traffic—they weren't there to wake him. His win felt hollow because the only person who ever made it feel like more had stopped showing up.

Stopped choosing him.

It hit all at once, sharp and loud and real: He didn't know how to be without them.

Not really. Not anymore.

By the time he noticed the rain, he was already outside, keys in hand, no jacket. It didn't matter. He just drove. Ended up at their apartment—well, his ex's now. Not his. Not theirs. Just one toothbrush. One key.

He sat down with his back to the door. Rain soaked him straight through, plastered his hoodie to his skin. His phone buzzed, maybe a message from someone congratulating him. Maybe Elián. He didn't check. He didn't care.

All he could see was his partner walking away. Talking to Elián too much. Laughing. Not at his jokes.

They weren't coming back.

Not this time.

His throat burned. His chest felt like it had caved in. He didn't notice he was crying until he heard footsteps—and looked up.

There his ex was. Stopped mid-step, a bag in hand. Caught in the downpour just like him.

Cal pushed himself to his feet, rain still dripping from his lashes.

"Please," he rasped, voice raw. "Please don't leave. I know I messed up. I didn't see it—I didn't see you until you were already halfway gone. But I get it now. And I'm not okay without you. I thought I'd be fine. I'm not. I miss you so much I can't even fucking think."

He stepped forward, reaching—but careful, as if they might vanish if he moved too fast.

"I didn't fight for you. I thought I didn't need to. That you'd always be there. But you're not. And it's killing me."

The silence between them cracked like thunder.

"I just want to go back," he whispered. "To when you used to look at me like I was enough. When we weren't like this. I'll do anything. Just... please smile at me again. Please stay."

He didn't know what they would say. If they'd turn him away. If they'd cry too. If they'd tell him it was too late.

All he knew was he was still standing in the rain—waiting.