Harry – POV
I sit at the farthest corner of the café, tucked behind a potted plant and an obnoxiously tall menu stand, out of sight but with a clear view of the front entrance.
The coffee in front of me has gone cold.
I don't even remember ordering it.
I've just been sitting here, fingers curled around the ceramic cup, heart ticking like a time bomb, waiting.
Yesterday, while I was doing my laundry—trying to feel like a person again, trying to act like normal—something slipped out of the pocket of my hoodie.
A folded piece of paper.
I'd stared at it for a long time. Longer than necessary. Like it might explode in my hand if I opened it.
Inside, scrawled in sharp, neat handwriting, was a number.
Ivan's.
It wasn't signed. It didn't need to be.
I remembered the bathroom. His voice. The way he looked at me—not with pity, but with recognition.
The way he asked me if I still recognized the person in the mirror.
It clung to me.
Buzzed in the background of my mind like white noise I couldn't shut off.
Against my will, I found myself in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom.
Just stood there.
At first, I tried to pretend I didn't understand what he meant. That it was just a rhetorical jab—something dramatic and overblown. But the moment I looked up and really looked...
I gasped.
It wasn't a sharp sound, more like a small breath punched out of my chest. But it was enough to shatter the fragile image I'd been carrying.
It wasn't just weight loss.
It wasn't just tired eyes.
It was the way my body looked under my clothes—bruises faded into yellows and blues like a sick watercolor, and when I lifted my shirt, I could see the outline of my ribs a little too clearly. I'd gotten good at avoiding this kind of lighting. The soft shadows of Dorian's apartment, the dim lamps of his preferences.
I hadn't seen myself under fluorescent truth in a long time.
But the worst part wasn't the physical signs.
It was my eyes.
Hollow. Flat. Like the person inside them had gone somewhere and forgotten to come back.
I dropped to the floor before I realized it. Hugged my knees. Pressed my forehead against them.
The wave of shame, grief, anger—so tangled I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began—washed over me and left me small and cold on the tile.
I don't even remember picking up my phone.
Don't remember typing.
Just remember the buzz that came a few minutes later, lighting up the cracked screen.
A reply.
"Name the place. I'll be there."
I stared at the message for a long time. My hands were shaking. Not from fear. Not even from relief.
Just from the weight of someone seeing me.
I sent him the name of a café. Neutral ground. Somewhere quiet, out of the spotlight. Somewhere no one would think to look for someone like me.
And now here I am.
Cold coffee. A chipped mug. A shaky heart.
Waiting.
I stare out the window like I'm pretending I'm not checking the time. Like I didn't count the seconds between the last chime of the doorbell and the nothing that followed. Like I haven't already rehearsed what I'll say—if I'll say anything at all.
I start to stand. My coat's halfway off the chair when the café door swings open with a sharp chime.
And in walks someone bundled in layers—mask, hood pulled low, long coat swallowing their frame.
I blink.
And then I see it.
Even hidden beneath all that fabric, even with his head ducked low, his gait quiet and purposeful—
It's him.
Some heads turn—of course they do.
Because even like this, even muted and hidden and deliberately not seen, he's magnetic. Like the room itself can't help but look. Like his presence bends space a little.
I sink back into my seat as he makes a slow, calculated path toward me. He doesn't rush. He doesn't fidget. His eyes scan the room once before they land on me—and soften.
Just a little.
He slides into the booth across from me, peels off the hood, then the mask, and places them neatly on the seat beside him.
There's something strange about watching someone famous try to be invisible. No matter how he dresses down or tries to vanish into the scenery, there's a weight to Ivan's presence that always draws the eye. Even now, in this quiet corner of a half-full café, he looks like someone the world should pay attention to.
"Sorry I'm late," he says, voice soft, not breathless or rushed—just... measured. "Something came up."
He offers a small smile—polite, a little awkward, a little warm.
"It's fine. I didn't wait that long." I lie.