...She had come with someone else.
And she looked radiant.
Avegar's grip on the wineglass tightened. The stem cracked—just enough for a sliver of red to spill onto the white linen tablecloth, like blood.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Because if he did, the control he wore like armor might splinter. And in front of all these people—of her—he would never allow that.
Elvira's eyes finally met his.
It was brief.
A flicker of recognition. A cool, composed sweep of her gaze that passed over him like a stranger's. No smile. No softness. Not even anger.
Just... distance.
Avegar felt it like a slap.
The man beside her—Michael, though Avegar didn't yet know the name—pulled her chair out with a gentleman's grace. Elvira sat, her posture perfect, her attention now fully on the people around her. The conversation resumed slowly, like the city after a blackout.
But for Avegar, the lights had not come back on.
He didn't taste the next sip of wine. Didn't register Vivienne's laughter across the table. His eyes stayed locked on Elvira—even when she didn't look back.
Especially then.
Because something had shifted.
She'd always been fire—grace and fury in equal measure—but tonight, she was steel too. She wasn't here to be seen. She was here to show him.
That she was surviving.
That she could walk into the lion's den in heels and silk and poetry stitched into her hem, and not flinch.
That he wasn't the axis of her world anymore.
And maybe—just maybe—he never was.
---
Elvira, meanwhile, felt everything.
The weight of his gaze. The silence of it. The ache beneath it.
She didn't show it. Not in her smile. Not in the way she leaned just slightly toward Michael as he spoke. Not in the way her fingers played absently with the stem of her champagne glass as if nothing burned behind her ribs.
But her heart? Her heart was a war drum.
She could feel Avegar across the room like a storm against her skin.
He hadn't changed.
Not his tailored calm. Not the way his shirt was always one button too strict, his sleeves rolled back.
But something in her had.
She wasn't the girl who waited by windows anymore.
And though she hadn't expected Michael to take her hand under the table, he did.
Gentle. Steady.
Elvira blinked.
---
Michael's gaze met Avegar's like a quiet challenge—not aggressive, but unmistakably present. It wasn't the look of a man staking a claim. It was the look of a man aware that someone else still hadn't let go.
Avegar didn't return the smile Michael offered across the table. Instead, he held his wineglass by the base, his thumb tracing the rim like it could distract him from the restlessness thrumming in his chest.
He had always been good at stillness. At being unreadable.
But Elvira—she was the one person who'd ever known what that stillness cost him.
She laughed at something Michael whispered to her. Not too loudly, not too fondly—but Avegar heard it like a needle beneath his skin. His eyes didn't leave her. Not once.
He watched the small moments—the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the soft touch of her fingers on Michael's cuff, the practiced grace of her composure.
And he realized something painful in its simplicity.
She didn't look like someone performing.
She looked like someone who had moved on.
When she rose to excuse herself from the table, Avegar's attention sharpened. She passed behind his chair, and though she didn't touch him or look at him, he felt the air shift with her nearness.
He waited. A beat. Two.
Then followed.
The hallway was quieter than the main room—just low light, hushed music, and the muffled sounds of conversation far behind. She was coming out of the restroom when she saw him there, leaning against the wall as if he didn't know what to do with his hands.
She stopped.
"Avegar."
He looked up. And for a moment, he said nothing.
Just drank her in.
"You look… different," he said finally, voice low. Careful.
She tilted her head slightly. "It's the lipstick."
He smiled, faintly. "It's not."
A silence stretched between them. Not cold—but weighted. Full of all the words they'd never said when it would have mattered.
"I wasn't expecting to see you here," she said.
He nodded. "I didn't expect… that he'd be with you."
She blinked. "You don't even know him."
"I don't have to."
That surprised her more than it should have.
He stepped forward, slowly. Not crowding her. Just close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence, the way she always used to. She remembered how that had once made her feel protected.
"Elvira," he said softly, "I'm not trying to ruin your evening. I just…" He hesitated. "I saw the way he looks at you. And how you let him."
She folded her arms, unsure whether it was defense or habit.
"I don't belong to anyone anymore, Avegar."
He nodded again, swallowing. "I know. That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
Avegar took a breath. Long. Controlled. His hands flexed slightly at his sides, as if he were holding something back—words, emotion, instinct.
"What did I mean?" he echoed, his voice low. Sharper now, brittle around the edges. "I meant you never used to laugh like that with someone else."
Elvira's brow lifted. "You were watching that closely?"
"Don't flatter yourself," he bit back, though his jaw tightened the moment the words left him—too harsh, too fast.
She didn't flinch. She'd learned long ago how to read the intention behind his sharp edges. This wasn't cruelty.
This was pain in disguise.
"Avegar…" Her voice was calm now, quiet, but not soft. "You don't get to do this. Not anymore."
His eyes searched her face like he was trying to memorize her all over again. "You don't even see it, do you? How different you are with him."
"And maybe that's a good thing."
"Is it?"
She hesitated.
He stepped closer—not invading, but inching into that charged space between familiarity and trespass.
"Does he even know how you take your coffee?" he asked. "That you can't stand the sound of ticking clocks? That when you're anxious, you hum without realizing it?"
"Avegar—"
"Does he know," his voice dropped lower, "that you break a little inside every time someone tells you they're fine when you know they're not?"
Her arms fell to her sides.
"I did," he said. "I knew every detail. Every silence. Every look. And I still wasn't enough for you."
Elvira blinked, the sting behind her eyes sudden and sharp.
"I never said you weren't enough," she whispered.
"No," he said bitterly. "You just stopped choosing me."
There it was.
The wound.
Fresh, even now.
"And yet you didn't stop me," she replied, her voice trembling just slightly. "You let me go. You let the silence grow until it filled the space between us like smoke."
Avegar turned his face away for a breath—eyes closed. When he looked back at her, there was something more jagged in his gaze. "And now he gets the version of you I used to dream of."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
She shook her head. "He doesn't get a version of me. He gets me. All of me. Because he sees me without looking backwards. He doesn't love men."
His expression darkened. "So you're in love with him?"
She didn't answer.
And that silence said more than anything else.
Avegar's breath caught, just barely.
Then—
"Is that why you let him touch you like that at the table?" His voice, now quieter, more cutting. "Like you wanted me to see it."
Elvira stared at him, something colder setting into her spine.
"You think I'm trying to make you jealous?"
His silence was enough.
"Avegar," she said, disbelief threading into her voice. "You think this is about you?"
He looked away, ashamed, angry—at himself, mostly.
And then, from behind them, footsteps.
Michael's voice was level, not loud. But it carried.
"Is that man bothering you?"
Elvira didn't turn immediately.
She felt Avegar stiffen.
He looked at Michael, jaw tight, but said nothing.
Elvira turned then, and in that moment, everything in her expression softened—not with fear, not even with guilt.
With resolve.
"No, darling," she said, slipping a hand into Michael's without hesitation. "I'm now back with you."
Avegar's gaze dropped to their joined hands. The gesture wasn't overly romantic or possessive. It was simple.
As they began to walk away, he didn't follow.
But his voice reached her—barely above a whisper, right before the distance swallowed it.
"That man?" he said, eyes locked to hers. "Am I that man?"
Elvira didn't answer.
She just let Michael lead her back into the warmth and light of the room, leaving Avegar in the echo of everything they used to be.
—----
That Man
Avegar stood alone outside, the cold biting through the collar of his coat.
The party had thinned out. Laughter had turned into goodbyes, then into the quiet shuffle of catering crews packing up trays. Most people had gone home, fading into the soft glow of streetlamps and the warmth of waiting cars.
But he hadn't moved.
Not yet.
Her voice kept playing in his head.
"No, darling. I'm now back with you."
But she hadn't said Michael's name.
She'd said that man when she looked at Avegar.
Not a name. Not even an insult.
Just... distance.
He felt it like a slap — not because she owed him tenderness. Not even civility. But because for a moment, she'd made it sound like he was nobody.
That man.
He ground his jaw, breathing through the impulse to storm back in there and demand something — clarity, closure, anything.
But he didn't.
Instead, he stood in the alley, under a rusted lamp, watching the night deepen, letting his thoughts rot in their own silence.
Until he heard it.
A muffled voice.
Too low to make out words, but sharp. Tense.
Then the sound of a chair scraping the floor.
A thud.
And a voice he recognized, strained:
"No—Michael—stop it. Don't—"
The blood in Avegar's veins went ice-cold.
He was moving before he even realized it — through the back entrance, past stacked crates and the smell of stale wine.
Then—
A sharper sound.
Fabric torn. A gasp.
Then her voice again — sharp, terrified.
"Don't touch me!"
And Avegar saw red.
Inside the half-dark restaurant, Elvira was pressed back against the bar, struggling to shove Michael's hands off her.
He was drunk — eyes glassy, swaying slightly — but insistent. His voice was slurred and sour with entitlement.
"C'mon... you brought me here," he murmured, breath hot against her cheek. "You kept looking at me like you wanted something... I know that look... Don't play hard to get now... just one night, El... come on..."
"Get your hands off me," she snapped, voice cracking. "Michael, I said no—"
"You wore that dress for a reason," he muttered, grabbing her wrist. "I'm not stupid."
She shoved at his chest, but he didn't let go.
And then the door slammed open.
Michael barely had time to look up before Avegar was across the room.
No warning.
No words.
Just a flash of movement and the brutal sound of impact.
Avegar's fist slammed into Michael's jaw, sending him stumbling backward and crashing into a chair. Wood cracked. Glass shattered on the floor.
Elvira gasped—but didn't run.
Michael groaned, disoriented, blood at the corner of his mouth. "Who the f—"
Avegar grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
"You think no means maybe?" Avegar growled, voice cold and lethal. "You think you can put your hands on her and walk away?"
"Hey—hey—she invited me," Michael slurred, trying to twist away. "She wanted—"
Avegar slammed him back into the wall with a thud that rattled the wine glasses behind the bar.
"Finish that sentence," he hissed, "and I swear I'll break your jaw so you never say another word again."
Michael's eyes widened.
Fear finally sinking in.
"I—I didn't mean—"
Avegar shoved him aside. Michael collapsed onto the floor, wheezing.
He wouldn't get back up soon.
Avegar turned slowly, chest rising and falling with tight, measured breaths.
Elvira stood still, hands shaking slightly, her lipstick smudged and a red mark on her arm where Michael had grabbed her. Her breath hitched when Avegar's eyes found hers.
But he didn't say anything.
Not yet.
He just walked to her—slow, careful—as if approaching something fragile.
"Elvira," he said quietly.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first. Then finally: "I didn't know how to stop him."
Her voice was raw.
Avegar's jaw clenched. "You shouldn't have had to."
There was a silence. Not the awkward kind. The heavy kind. Like the space between lightning and thunder.
"I thought he was just... a date," she said, almost to herself. "A nothing-date. I didn't expect him to turn like that."
He didn't ask why she brought him.
He didn't scold her.
He just looked at her like she was breaking in front of him, and he was powerless to stop it.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"For what?"
She swallowed. "For trying to prove I was over you."
Avegar's gaze didn't waver. "Are you?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she looked down at the broken glass on the floor.
"I was stupid," she muttered. "Letting him take me here. Pretending it meant nothing. Trying to forget—"
He stepped closer.
Her voice cracked. "I thought if I dressed up, smiled, flirted with someone else—maybe I could convince myself I didn't care anymore."
"And did you?"
"No."
It was barely a whisper.
"I looked for you the second I walked in."
Avegar exhaled, long and shaky.
And then — she leaned into him. Not a dramatic fall. Just a quiet surrender of weight. Like her body trusted him more than her mind did.
He caught her without hesitation.
Held her.
Arms around her back, hand cradling her head like she might fall apart if he let go too soon.
"I didn't expect you to save me," she murmured against his chest.
"I didn't think," he said. "I just heard you."
She pulled back just enough to look at him.
His hand lingered at her cheek, brushing back a strand of hair.
"I didn't even know you were still here," she said.
"I couldn't leave," he replied. "Not while you were still in there. With him."
Her eyes searched his. "Why?"
His voice dropped, barely audible. "Because I'm not that man."
There it was.
That phrase again.
But now — reclaimed.
Not something she called him.
Something he refused to become.
Her hand touched his shirt, fisting it lightly.
"You don't have to protect me anymore," she said.
"I know," he answered. "But I still will."
Elvira closed her eyes for a moment, breathing him in, grounding herself in something that felt devastatingly familiar.
Then—
"Take me home."
She didn't mean Michael's place.
She didn't mean a hotel.
She meant away.
Away from this night. From the shame. From the bruises that hadn't even formed yet.
Avegar nodded once.
The car was quiet.
Avegar hadn't said a word since they pulled away from the restaurant, and Elvira hadn't asked him to. Silence between them had always said enough. Tonight, it spoke of exhaustion, and of the fragile calm that comes after surviving something that shouldn't have happened.
When they reached the apartment, she followed him without question.
It was small. Clean. Sparse.
A second-floor flat tucked between closed shops and ivy-stained stone, the kind of place that didn't try to impress. No art on the walls. Just a few well-worn essentials: a desk cluttered with old files and maps, a battered leather armchair by the window, and a closed door at the back of the narrow hall.
"Where do you sleep?" she asked, her voice soft.
He nodded toward the door. "There."
She glanced around again. "Where do you live, Avegar?"
A flicker of a smile touched his lips, dry and distant. "Still figuring that part out."
She didn't smile back. But her eyes lingered on him longer than before, softer now. Less guarded.
There was something unspoken in the air — a closeness neither of them had reached for, but hadn't resisted either.
Avegar stepped closer, slow and measured.
His hand lifted to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his touch unexpectedly gentle. His fingers brushed her cheek, warm and rough.
"You okay?" he asked, voice low.
Her eyes met his, steady this time. And honest.
"No," she whispered. "But I feel safe."
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. His presence had always said what words never quite could: I see you. I hear you. I won't let anything touch you.
Then — the silence broke.
His phone vibrated against his chest.
Avegar exhaled through his nose, reluctant, but he answered — never taking his eyes off her.
"Yeah?"
A pause.
Then his brother's voice, hard-edged and triumphant:
"We got her father."
---