The rain came hours later, long after the crew had returned, full of stories and the smell of spices from the Grand Bazaar. It was not a gentle Swiss drizzle, but a heavy, persistent downpour that drummed against the windows with a sound like distant, rolling applause. It filled the night with a wet, luminous darkness, painting the city lights into smeared watercolor blooms on the glass.

Y/N stood in the hallway, the patterned carpet muted under her feet. She stared at the dark wood of his hotel room door, her fist raised. The knock, when it came, was three soft, hesitant taps, barely audible over the rain’s static.