I was fine until she walked in.
Or maybe I was never fine—just suspended in something cold and manageable.
But the second I saw her...
It ended.
She stepped into Elijah's apartment like she owned the air.
Hair twisted at the back, tendrils falling around her face. That green dress clinging to her like silk painted over fire. No jewelry. No flashy heels. Just skin, confidence, and presence.
Every conversation in the room faded. I didn't hear Elijah cracking jokes. I didn't feel the glass in my hand. I didn't even remember what I'd been saying.
Because Lyra walked in, and everything stopped.
She hasn't looked at me.
She's pretending I'm not here. Good.
Because if she does—if she gives me that look from the studio, the one that made me want to kneel at her feet—I don't know if I'll be able to sit still.
I stay by the bar. I sip slowly. I count my breaths.
She laughs at something Maya says.
And I feel it like a punch.
That laugh used to be mine.
Or at least… I thought it could've been.
She walks past my side of the room without flinching. No hesitation. No glance.
But her spine is too straight. Her hands too controlled.
She's not fine either.
Good.
Let us both suffer.
Elijah calls her to sit, and when I realize she's directly across from me, I almost curse out loud.
She glides into the seat like she doesn't notice me. Like I'm part of the furniture.
But she's wearing that dress, and I know exactly what she's doing.
And I deserve it.
I watch her.
God, I shouldn't, but I do.
Her fingers curling lightly around her wineglass. Her lips pressing against the rim. Her eyes dancing with everyone but me.
It's maddening.
And when I finally speak—quietly, low, meant only for her—she doesn't hesitate.
'You look… different tonight,' I say.
Her gaze cuts through me.
'Do I?'
She already knows the answer.
'Yes.'
'Maybe you're just seeing me clearly for the first time.'
That sentence.
That knife of a sentence.
She's not wrong.
I've never seen her like this before.
All power. No softness. Every inch of her daring me to break again.
And the worst part?
I want to.
I want to ruin every bit of distance she's tried to build.
But I can't. Not here. Not with Elijah at the table. Not with ten sets of eyes pretending they don't feel the crackle under the surface.
So I sit.
And I watch.
And I burn.
Because Lyra's no longer the quiet girl with gentle eyes.
She's the storm I ran from…
And she's not hiding anymore.