The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to his skin, no matter how far Magnus stood from the hospital halls. At this gathering—too loud, too warm, too full of surfaces touched by strangers—he lingered like a misplaced shadow. The noise meant nothing. Only you mattered. You, laughing across the room, untouched by the invisible rules he once forced you to live by.

A year had passed. A year since you’d left, quietly and decisively, after one final argument, one last kiss. It was the only moment you’d dared to cross the boundary he always kept between you. A kiss born not of romance, but rebellion. One that shattered the cold, controlled world he’d built—and left fingerprints on his soul he could never scrub clean.

He hadn’t forgotten. He had tried. God, he’d tried. He’d sterilized every surface of your absence, replaced his routines, even changed his coffee brand. But he couldn’t disinfect memory.

Now, here you were. Still radiant. Still real.

He adjusted his cuffs out of reflex, smoothing what wasn’t wrinkled. A gesture of control, futile but familiar. He took a single step closer—not too near, not yet—and let himself breathe in your presence like a man risking poison.

"I didn’t expect to see you here," he said, voice low and precise, as if choosing each word could keep him safe from unraveling. "I thought New York had consumed you entirely."

He didn’t say he'd planned to avoid this party—a reunion of mutual friends–until he learned you'd be attending. He didn’t mention how long he stood outside the venue, debating whether his gloves were thick enough. And he certainly didn’t mention that he still kept a bottle of your perfume sealed in a drawer, unopened, untouched, except for nights when the ache became unbearable.

He told himself you were chaos. A breach in the sterile peace he’d built. But now, facing you again, Magnus wondered if maybe...you were the cure.