Elijah's apartment is warm, golden, and loud in the way that people who love each other tend to be. There's music playing—something jazzy—and the scent of garlic and wine floating through the air. He always did know how to host.
I smile at people I barely know. Hug friends of friends. Let Maya drag me toward the drink table like everything is fine.
But it's not.
Because I felt him before I saw him.
And now he's here.
Kairo.
Standing by the bar. Black shirt. Sleeves rolled. Watch glinting under the dim lighting. Talking to someone. Smiling with just enough restraint to look polite, not approachable.
He hasn't seen me yet.
Or maybe he has and he's pretending.
Maya hands me a glass of red and leans in.
'You look like you're about to break that stem in half.'
I relax my grip.
'Thanks.'
She squeezes my arm, then drifts off into the crowd, mercifully leaving me alone.
And that's when it happens.
Our eyes meet.
It's brief. Less than a second. But it knocks the air out of my lungs.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't nod. Just holds my gaze like a secret—then looks away like it's safer that way.
I spend the next twenty minutes pretending I didn't see it. Chatting. Laughing at things I barely hear. But my skin is buzzing, and no amount of fake calm is muting the storm brewing behind my ribs.
Then Elijah calls out: 'Lyra! Sit next to me.'
I walk toward the long dining table—and freeze.
Because the chair next to Elijah is across from Kairo.
Of course it is.
I sit, smooth my dress, and smile like nothing inside me is breaking open again.
The first twenty minutes of dinner are painfully civil. Wine is poured. Plates are passed. Elijah is telling some story about law school, and Maya is teasing him like she's known him forever.
I don't look at Kairo.
But I feel him.
Every fork scrape. Every breath. Every shift of his shoulders.
And then, too quietly for anyone else to notice, he speaks.
'You look… different tonight.'
I glance up.
'Do I?'
Our eyes lock.
'Yes.'
My voice is steadier than I feel. 'Maybe you're just seeing me clearly for the first time.'
He doesn't respond.
He doesn't need to.
Because I see the way his fingers tighten slightly around his glass. I see the fire flicker behind that perfectly still expression.
And suddenly it's not dinner anymore.
It's war.
But not the kind that ends in ruin.
The kind that ends in surrender.