Andrea didn't argue when Tom unlocked the car door for her.
She climbed in, wet and silent, folding into the passenger seat like she didn't want to take up space. Tom didn't ask questions. He just drove — through rain-slicked streets, past neon reflections and blurred memories.
Berlin looked different from inside his car.
Safer.
More dangerous.
When he pulled into the underground garage, Andrea finally looked around. The building rose above them in clean glass and steel. This wasn't the apartment she remembered — not the cramped place with mismatched furniture and late-night music leaking through thin walls.
The elevator ride was quiet.
When the doors opened, she stopped.
The apartment was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Berlin like a living painting — city lights glowing beneath storm clouds. Dark wood, soft lighting, expensive furniture that screamed success without trying too hard.
Tom watched her carefully.
"Still… mine," he said quietly. "Just upgraded."
She nodded once.
"Nice."
That was all.
Inside, voices drifted from the kitchen.
Then Bill appeared.
He froze.
For a split second, his confident mask shattered. His eyes widened, lips parting as if he'd forgotten how to speak.
"…Andrea?"
Gustav was right behind him, already moving closer, concern written all over his face.
"Oh my god," he breathed. "You're really here."
Georg stayed back, arms crossed, studying her like a puzzle that no longer had an edge he recognized.
Two years.
Andrea stood there dripping rain onto polished floors, her hood still up, eyes hollow.
"It's good to see you," Gustav said gently.
She nodded.
"Yeah."
Bill swallowed hard. "You just… disappeared. No goodbye. Nothing."
Her jaw tightened.
Tom stepped in before the silence became unbearable.
"She needed a place to stay."
"Of course," Gustav said immediately. "You're always welcome."
Andrea didn't respond.
Dinner happened like a carefully choreographed performance. Plates were passed. Food was offered. She ate because not eating would invite more questions — and questions were dangerous.
They talked around her at first. Tour stories. Berlin. Music. Anything safe.
Then Bill broke.
"So," he said, trying to sound casual, failing miserably. "Atlanta. That's… far."
Andrea's fork paused mid-air.
"Yeah," Tom added quietly. "Two years is a long time."
She swallowed.
"Time passes."
Georg leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. "You don't sound like someone who just… studied abroad."
Silence crashed onto the table.
Gustav shifted uncomfortably. "You don't have to talk about it if—"
"What did you do there?" Bill asked softly. "You didn't answer our messages. Not once."
Andrea's fingers tightened around the fork.
"I worked."
"That's it?" Tom asked, his voice controlled but strained. "You left everything. Us. For 'work'?"
Her eyes flicked to his for the first time.
"I didn't leave you," she said flatly. "I left to survive."
No one spoke.
The city lights reflected in the windows behind her, casting shadows across her face — darker than any of them remembered.
Gustav broke the silence carefully. "Are you… okay?"
Andrea stood.
"I'm tired."
Tom opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"Guest room's ready," he said. "You can stay as long as you want."
She hesitated — just a second — then nodded.
"Thanks."
As she disappeared down the hallway, Bill exhaled shakily.
"That wasn't the Andrea we knew."
"No," he said quietly. "But whatever happened to her in Atlanta… it's still with her."
Tom stayed silent, staring at the empty doorway, heart pounding.
Because he didn't just bring an ex home.
He brought a storm.