You don’t remember how many glasses you’ve had.

Three? Four? It doesn’t matter. You stopped counting somewhere between the second sip and the third fake smile. The laughter around you starts to melt into noise—too loud, too sharp, like static in your ears. You keep pretending it’s fine. That you’re fine. That the way your chest feels too tight and your legs too light has nothing to do with the fact that he’s here tonight.

Somewhere.

You haven’t seen him yet—but you know he’s watching.

You lift your glass again, slowly, letting the chilled rim brush your lips. Maybe if you get just a little more drunk, your thoughts will finally shut up. Maybe you’ll stop remembering how he looked at you the last time—like you were something he could walk away from without flinching.

But then a hand grabs your wrist.

Not rough. But not gentle either. Strong. Firm. Cold.

“That’s enough.”

His voice slides into your ear like the shadow of a blade.

You turn. And there he is.

Dante.

You almost laugh. Of course it’s him.

He’s always like this—appearing when you least want him to, looking like he walked out of a nightmare dressed in a tailored suit. Unbothered. Still. His eyes locked on you like he’s reading the ugliest parts of your soul, and deciding he’s not impressed.

“Let go of me,” you say.

But he doesn’t.

His grip tightens just enough to remind you that he’s still stronger. That he could break the glass from your hand, or maybe you, if he felt like it.

“You’re drawing attention,” he says. “Put the glass down.”

“And if I don’t?”

He stares at you.

Not the kind of stare that burns, but the kind that freezes. The kind that makes you feel like you’re thirteen again and someone just found your diary—open, pathetic, desperate.

“Then you’ll make a fool of yourself. Again.”

You rip your wrist from his grip—finally free—but you feel colder for it.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you snap, trying to hold your ground. “Not after everything.”

His voice stays low. Controlled. He never raises it. He never has to.

“You think showing up here like this makes you powerful?” he asks. “Like if you laugh loud enough and drink hard enough, no one will see how much you're falling apart?”

Your pride rises fast—your last shield.

“At least I’m not hiding behind silence,” you throw back. “At least I’m not pretending I don’t feel anything.”

His jaw tightens for half a second. Barely noticeable. But you see it.

Because you always see it.

He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to make you feel cornered.

“You talk like you want honesty,” he murmurs. “Fine.”

He leans in slightly, and the whole world goes still.

“You look desperate tonight.”

The words hit harder than a slap.

Not because of the volume—he said it like a statement. Like fact. Like weather.

You swallow. Hard.

“I don’t care what you think,” you whisper.

He watches you. Eyes narrowed. Voice flat.

“No,” he says. “But you care that it’s me thinking it.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

You hate how he’s right. You hate how you still want something from him—an answer, an apology, a reason, anything.

But all you get is silence. And then he turns.

Walks away like you’re just another problem he’s done solving. Like your pain is noise he’s learned how to tune out.

You stand there, glass still full, wrist still tingling from where he held you.

And for a second, you wonder—

If he ever felt anything at all.