The mansion’s marble foyer was cold underfoot, smelling of lemon polish and the ghost of last night’s spilled champagne. Robin dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. The sound echoed in the vast, silent entryway. He didn’t look toward the living room, where April was waiting.

“You’re home.”

Her voice was flat. He turned. She stood in the archway, arms crossed, wearing one of his old t-shirts. Her hair was down, her face clean of makeup. She looked young. She looked tired.

“Yeah.” He shrugged off his jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair. “Long night.”

“I called. Julian called.”

“I saw.” He walked past her toward the kitchen, his movements loose, unbothered. He opened the refrigerator, stared at the contents without seeing them. The cool air washed over his face.

She followed him. “That’s it? ‘I saw’?”

“What do you want me to say, April?” He closed the fridge, leaned against the counter. He met her eyes, and his were empty. “I was busy. I missed some calls. It happens.”

She blinked, her confident posture faltering for a second. This wasn’t guilty Robin, or charming Robin, or even angry Robin. This was something new. A man who simply did not care. “Busy with what?”

“Does it matter?” He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that usually meant frustration, but now just looked like he was brushing something away. “I’m here now.”

“It matters to me.” Her voice tightened. “It mattered to your son. He was worried. I was worried. We had a plan tonight, remember? Dinner. Just us.”

“Plans change.” He pushed off the counter, moved to pour himself a glass of water from the tap. He drank it slowly, his back to her. The casual dismissal was a vacuum, sucking the air from the room.

“Look at me.”

He didn’t turn.

“Robin.”

He set the glass in the sink. It clinked against the stainless steel. Finally, he faced her. His famous smile was absent. His face was a handsome, weary mask. “What?”

The word was a wall. April took a step back, her big eyes wide with a dawning, awful understanding. “Who are you right now?”

“I’m me. This is me.” He spread his hands, a hollow parody of a performer’s gesture. “Tired. Home. Not in the mood for a fucking interrogation.”

“An interrogation?” Her voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “I’m your girlfriend. Your son called because he couldn’t reach you. That’s not an interrogation, that’s a life. The one you keep saying you want.”

“I know what I said.” His tone was dismissive, final. He moved to walk past her, out of the kitchen.

She blocked his path. “No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just… shut down. Not after everything. Not after the rules, and the promises, and…” She trailed off, searching his face for any crack. She found none. “Paula was right.”

That got a reaction. A flicker in his dead eyes. A slight tightening of his jaw. “Don’t.”

“She was. She told me you’d do this. That it’s your nature. That you can’t love anyone. Not really. Not in a way that lasts.” The words tumbled out, fueled by a fear that was now crystallizing into certainty. “I didn’t want to believe her. I fought for you. And now you’re just… this. A man who can’t even be bothered to feel bad about hurting people.”

“I’m not having this conversation.” His voice was low, dangerous.

“Then don’t.” The fight drained out of her, replaced by a cold, clear resolve. Her shoulders straightened. “I’m leaving.”

“April—”

“No.” She held up a hand, cutting him off. “You don’t care. So I won’t care either. It’s easier this way.” She walked past him, out of the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the marble.

He stood frozen in the kitchen’s sterile light, listening to the soft sounds of her moving upstairs. A drawer opening. The quiet zip of a bag. The silence that followed was heavier than any noise. He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen showed three missed calls from Julian. He tapped the name, put the phone to his ear.

It rang twice. “Dad?” Julian’s voice was small, worried.

“Hey, buddy. Sorry I missed you.” Robin’s performer’s charm clicked on automatically, but it sounded thin, even to him.

“Are you okay? April was really worried.”

“I’m fine. Just got tied up with… work stuff.”

A pause. “You’re lying.” Julian’s voice wasn’t angry. It was disappointed. It was worse. “Mom said you’d do this. She said you’d get distracted and forget.”

The hollow place inside Robin yawned wider. “It’s not like that, Jules.”

“It never is.” Another pause. “I gotta go.”

The line went dead. Robin lowered the phone, stared at the black screen. The reflection looking back at him was a stranger. He scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering. The silence of the mansion pressed in, a physical weight. He tapped a name. It rang once.

“Hello?” Lena’s voice was sleep-soft, intimate.

“It’s me.”

“I know.” A smile in her voice. “Come over.”

Her apartment was the opposite of the mansion: small, warm, smelling of sweat and vanilla candle and the musky, tangled scent of silk sheets. She opened the door wearing a thin satin robe, tied loosely. Her hair was messy. She didn’t say anything, just took his hand and pulled him inside, closing the door on the world.

Her mouth found his in the dim light from a single lamp. The kiss was slow, deep, a sanctuary. Her hands pushed his shirt off his shoulders. His fingers found the tie of her robe. He didn’t pull it. Just held the silk cord, feeling its slight resistance, before letting it slip through his grasp. The robe fell open.

Her skin was warm. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in. Salt. Perfume. Her. She guided him backward toward the bed, a tangle of sheets and pillows. They sank into it together. There was no urgency, no performance. Just the slow, deliberate mapping of skin. His lips traced the line of her collarbone. Her nails scraped gently down his back.

When he entered her, it was with a sigh that felt like surrender. She was wet, welcoming, a heat that enveloped him completely. He moved inside her with a slow, grinding rhythm that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with forgetting. Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him deeper. Her breath hitched against his ear. The only sounds were their breathing, the soft, wet slide of their bodies joining, the creak of the bedframe keeping time.

After, they lay tangled in the damp sheets. The candle had burned lower. Robin stared at the ceiling, his arm under her head, her hair fanned across his chest. The hollow feeling was still there, but it was muffled now, wrapped in a layer of physical satiation and warm skin.

Lena traced idle patterns on his stomach. “You’re not a marrying man, Robin.”

He didn’t look at her. “What’s that mean?”

“It means this.” She gestured vaguely at the room, at their entwined bodies. “This is what you’re good at. The romance of the moment. The heat. The escape. You’re promiscuous.” She said the word not as an insult, but as a clinical fact. “Not just with your body. With your attention. Your affection. You don’t know how to love one thing. You love the feeling love gives you. And when that feeling gets hard, or boring, or real… You find a new one.”

He was silent. The truth of her words didn’t land like a blow. They settled into the hollow space inside him, fitting perfectly, as if they’d always been there.

She turned her head, kissed his chest. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Not everyone is built for forever.”

He closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his lids, he saw April’s wounded, resolute face. He heard Julian’s disappointed voice. He saw Paula’s calm, knowing eyes. And he felt Lena’s warm, forgiving body beside him. The promiscuous man. The man who couldn’t love. The reflection in the black screen of his phone. He didn’t argue. He just held her tighter, chasing the warmth, fleeing the silence that waited for him when it faded.