Eli stepped away before he fully realized he was doing it.
The conversation between Mrs. Hales and Sam's dad continued smoothly, polite and composed, but standing that close had begun to feel overwhelming. Not because of anything being said—if anything, the calmness made it worse. The words blurred together, their meaning slipping past him. The space around him felt tighter than it should have.
He didn't know why.
So he did what came most naturally—he retreated. Not abruptly. Not noticeably. Just enough to put distance between himself and whatever pressure had started to build in his chest.
He told himself he needed air. Or quiet. Or nothing in particular.
The party carried on without him.
From where he stood, he could see clusters of familiar faces—his friends laughing, leaning into conversations, glasses raised mid-gesture. Sam was somewhere near the center of it, animated as always, clearly enjoying himself. Others drifted between groups with the ease Eli couldn't quite summon.
For a moment, he watched them like someone observing a scene he'd stepped out of too early.
It struck him then—quietly, almost unfairly—how strange it was. He had always found some measure of enjoyment in whatever life threw at him, even when it was difficult, even when it demanded more than he wanted to give. Yet here he was, surrounded by music, people, warmth—and feeling anything but enjoyment.
He tried again to enjoy himself—to be present—but the effort felt forced, like holding a position that wasn't meant to be sustained. The music pulsed through the room, loud enough to command attention without actually offering anything worth listening to.
Something lingered beneath the surface.
"Funny thing about parties," a voice said nearby. "They always insist on filling silence with the worst possible soundtrack."
Eli turned.
The man standing beside him looked to be in his late sixties, maybe early seventies. Tall, though slightly stooped, with thinning grey hair combed neatly back and a face lined not by strain but by time spent listening more than speaking. He wore his suit comfortably, as though it wasn't armor but habit—the jacket unbuttoned, sleeves resting naturally at his wrists. His eyes—sharp but unhurried—held no urgency, only quiet attention.
Eli realized then that he had seen him earlier in the evening. Not as someone important, not as a focal point—just present. Standing near conversations without dominating them. Moving through the room without drawing notice. Easy to overlook, and easier to remember once pointed out.
The song shifted into a slower arrangement—a polished jazz-pop cover of "Fly Me to the Moon," heavy on bass and stripped of its charm.
The man sighed lightly. "That version should be illegal."
Eli huffed before he could stop himself. "It feels like it's trying too hard."
"Exactly," the man said, pleased. "Music like that doesn't want to be heard. It wants to be impressive."
There was a pause. A comfortable one.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," the man added. "But you had the same expression I get when I stay too long at gatherings like this."
Eli exhaled softly. "Is it that obvious?"
"To people who know it," the man said. "Yes."
That earned a small smile—brief, reflexive.
"I'm not very good at pretending," Eli said.
The man nodded approvingly. "That usually means you're honest. People like honesty in theory. In practice, it makes them uneasy."
They stood together for a moment, watching the room without really watching it. The music faded into the background, reduced to a dull presence rather than a demand. Eli noticed that some of the tightness in his shoulders had eased.
"Family event?" the man asked.
"Something like that," Eli replied.
The man smiled faintly. "Those are always the loudest. Too many roles being played at once."
Eli glanced at him. "You sound like you've been to a few."
"I've stayed longer than I should have at most of them," the man said. "It's a habit you develop when leaving feels impolite."
They spoke about small things after that—the food, which was better than expected but not memorable; the crowd, which seemed louder as the night wore on. The conversation moved easily, without the urgency people often brought to parties.
Eli found himself listening more than speaking. And for once, that felt acceptable.
There was something about the man's presence that reminded him faintly of his father. Not the way he looked—but the way he listened. The pauses he allowed. The absence of performance.
"I don't think we've properly introduced ourselves," the man said eventually. "Arthur Hayes. I run the Silver Meridian Casino."
The name settled into the space between them. His heart rate went higher for a brief moment before his brain could register the name fully.
"Hayes....," Eli muttered, carefully. "Oh..I'm… not really fond of gambling."
Arthur Hayes regarded him with mild curiosity. "Most people who say that usually have a reason."
"I just don't like what it does," Eli replied. "To people. To families."
He stopped there.
Arthur didn't press.
"You're not wrong," he said after a moment. "I've seen it take more than it gives."
There was no defensiveness in his tone. No need to justify.
"And yet," Eli said quietly, "you run one."
Arthur smiled—not wryly, not apologetically. Just with recognition.
"A few years back, I tried stepping away," he said. "Handed things over to people who loved efficiency and hated inconvenience. On paper, profits went up. On the floor, things got worse."
He paused, choosing his words.
"Credit limits were raised quietly. Staff were pushed to look the other way. People who should've been escorted out were encouraged to stay. The harm didn't happen loudly—it accumulated."
Arthur took a sip of his drink.
"So I came back. Not because I believed in the place—but because I believed I could keep it from becoming something uglier. Some things don't disappear just because you walk away from them. Sometimes staying is the only way to stop the slide."
Eli absorbed this slowly.
He didn't agree with it. He still disliked the idea of gambling—still felt the old resistance stir. But he understood the logic. The compromise. The quiet cost of it.
"That sounds exhausting," Eli said.
Arthur smiled, this time more openly. "It is. But it's a kind of tired you learn to live with."
Something inside Eli loosened then—not dramatically, not all at once. Just enough.
He felt it before he realized it—his mouth curving upward, just slightly. A faint smile. Genuine. Unforced.
It was the first one he'd had all evening.