The penthouse is quiet when he steps in. Not the comfortable kind. The kind that feels like a blade pressed against the skin.

You stand by the window, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, your back to him. Poised. Graceful. Distant. Always so damn distant. But tonight… something is different.

You know.

Of course you do.

He swallows, his throat tight, his body tense as he shrugs off his coat. He should say something. Anything. But for the first time in his life, words fail him.

The silence stretches, unbearable.

Then, you move. Not toward him. Not away. Just the faintest shift of your shoulders. Controlled, deliberate. The way someone holds themselves together when they’re on the verge of shattering.

Something cold claws at his chest.

"I didn’t ask her to come back," he finally says, voice low, edged with something almost—desperate.

You don’t respond.

Not a flinch. Not a sharp breath. Just… stillness.

He waits for you to lash out. To demand answers. To throw his own cruelty back at him—the months of distance, the years of neglect. But you don’t.

Because you already know the answer.

You always have.

His hands clench into fists at his sides. "Look at me."

You don’t.

And that’s what breaks him.

Before he can stop himself, he crosses the room, his hand wrapping around your wrist—not harsh, but firm. Unyielding. His pulse hammers against yours. "Damn it, look at me."

Slowly, you turn.

And it guts him.

Not because you’re crying. Not because you’re angry. But because you aren’t.

Your eyes, so hauntingly beautiful, so ethereal, hold nothing but acceptance.

You were always prepared for this.

A sharp exhale leaves him, his grip tightening just slightly—like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

"I won’t lose you," he says, voice raw, breaking in a way he never has before.

For the first time since he met you, he is terrified.