Eli had just slipped into the parking lot, the quiet hum of the city stretching around him. The party behind him still lingered in memory — laughter, music, the subtle tension threading itself through every corner of the house. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and exhaled slowly, willing the faint unease at the edges of his mind to settle.
Then, halfway to his car, a small panic hit.
Keys.
They weren't in his pocket.
He patted down the other pockets, checked his jacket pockets, even rifled through the small compartment in his wallet. Nothing.
A slow sigh escaped him. A curse almost escaped along with it before caught at the last moment.He retraced his steps toward the house, careful not to disturb the few lingering guests still inside. His gaze passed the familiar shapes of furniture and shadows, and for a brief second, his attention drifted — an almost involuntary check for someone. Anyone.
But the hallways remained empty, still, indifferent.
He moved through the living room, past the stairwell, and toward the kitchen, checking counters, tables, chairs — anywhere a key could have slipped. His gaze occasionally drifted, just a fraction, toward the edge of the room, as if hoping to glimpse a familiar presence. But nothing.
A hurried voice cut through the quiet.
"Hey, Eli! I've been looking all over the house for you," Sam called, rounding the corner, slightly out of breath. "Turns out your keys ended up in my coat pocket when I grabbed the drinks earlier. Don't ask me how, but here they are."
Eli exhaled in relief. "Thanks, man." He accepted the keys with a nod. "Seriously, I owe you one."
"Yeah, yeah," Sam said, shaking his head. "Don't make a habit of wandering off."
Eli waved him off and turned toward the door, forcing himself this time not to spare even a tired glance back. No curiosity. No temptation. Just forward.
But as he reached the downstairs hallway, another inconvenient reality struck him: the sudden urge to pee.
The downstairs bathroom was occupied. Eli muttered under his breath, voice low and frustrated and this time it passed, "Fuck… my life."
He started back upstairs. The house was quieter now, the party's pulse reduced to faint echoes.
From the far end of the hallway came soft, uneven noises — a shuffle, a quiet exhale.
Eli's footsteps unknowingly became quicker, almost like he was running. Each step echoed slightly in the narrow hallway, mingling with the subtle noises ahead. The sound faded gradually with distance, leaving only the faint creak of the floorboards beneath him.
Then he saw him.
Arthur Hayes, bent slightly, shoulders rising and falling in shallow, irregular breaths. Something about the stance, the uneven rhythm of his chest, told Eli this wasn't simple fatigue. Eli's instincts kicked in.
"Mr. Hayes? Are you… okay?" Eli asked, stepping closer, his voice steady but concerned.
Arthur gave a faint, hoarse sound — barely a word, almost a grunt. "…Just… air…"
Eli didn't wait. He slid one arm under Arthur's shoulders, the other under his back, and began dragging him toward the hallway window, opening it to let the night air in.
"Come on, breathe slowly. Can you manage that?" Eli prompted, steadying him as he leaned Arthur against the wall.
Arthur's reply was fragmented, muttered between shallow breaths. "…Too… heavy… can't…"
Eli's brow furrowed. He kept one hand on Arthur, helping him steady himself. The cool air did little to settle him yet, but it was enough for Arthur to stop trembling.
And then it hit Eli.
A subtle fragrance. Sharp, clean, faintly floral, lingering around Arthur — but unmistakably not him.
Arthur himself carried Vetiver Grey — muted, dry, almost medicinal, the kind of scent chosen for respectability rather than desire. It sat close to the skin, restrained and predictable. What lingered around him now was different. Ambre Noire was warmer, deeper, carrying a quiet confidence that didn't ask for attention but claimed it anyway. One fragrance belonged to habit. The other to intention.
His stomach tensed, and his mind whirred. The scent was known. He'd smelled it just a few minutes ago, in the taxi, on a woman whose presence he couldn't place, but could not forget.
It was Ambre Noire, refined and elegant, with a subtle warmth beneath its floral edge — a perfume worn by Mrs. Hill, not Arthur.
Eli exhaled, shaking his head slightly. The irritation, the pull, the unanswered curiosity — it all mixed into a strange tension he couldn't name.
Arthur, still catching his breath, muttered again, "…thanks… for… air…"
"Don't thank me yet. Take it slow. Can you lean against the wall? That's it. Good…" Eli guided him carefully. "Just focus on breathing. That's all right. Just steady…"
Eli's gaze flicked subtly around the room, scanning the edges, but there was no one else. Just the faint, stubborn trace of Ambre Noire, the invisible echo of someone he shouldn't yet understand, lingering in the air.