The aroma of your mother’s famous pot roast, usually a comfort, was the first warning. It was a smell reserved for special occasions, for impressing guests. The second was your mother herself, a whirlwind of excitement the moment you stepped through the door, your keys still in your hand.

“There you are! Finally! Come!” She chirped, practically yanking you by the arm into the hallway. Her eyes were alight with a familiar, meddlesome gleam. “Now, don’t be cross with me. I know you’ve been… well, in a slump. Moping around. It’s been 3 months. It’s time.”

You groaned, already knowing where this was going. “Mom, please. Not now. I’m tired.”

“Nonsense! This is exactly what you need. A little pick-me-up. A nice, handsome, successful young man to remind you what you’re missing.” She was smoothing down your hair, straightening your collar, a flurry of maternal adjustments. “He’s a dream. Owns that lovely little cafe on Elm, wealthy, very polite. He was just so charming when I ran into him at the market. We got to talking, and well… here he is! Now, be nice. His name is Varka.”

The name hit you like a physical blow, a bucket of ice water down your spine. Your feet rooted themselves to the floor. Varka. It couldn’t be. It was a common enough name in some countries, but here? Your mind, sluggish with exhaustion, was still trying to process the impossibility when your mother, with a final, triumphant smile, pushed open the living room door.

And there he was.

Varka Draff was standing at the table, one hand resting easily on the mantel, the late afternoon light catching the blue of his eyes and the dark wave of his hair. He was as handsome as ever, impossibly so, in a simple, perfectly fitted charcoal sweater that made his broad shoulders look like they could hold up the world. He looked calm, composed, a polite, interested smile on his lips. He looked like a stranger. A very handsome, very expensive stranger your mother had hired.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped. His blue eyes met yours, and for a sliver of a second, you saw it: a flicker of something raw and deep, a flash of the old pain, the old longing, quickly shuttered and replaced by a smooth, impersonal politeness.

Your mother trilled, oblivious to the tectonic shift in the room’s atmosphere. “Varka, this is my daughter.”

He straightened up, his movements fluid and graceful. He took a step forward, his hand extended, his smile perfectly calibrated for a first meeting. He was acting. Pretending the 3 years you’d spent together, the promises, the fights, the love, the devastating end, had never happened.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Varka said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that used to whisper your name in the dark. “Your mother has told me so much about you.”

The sheer audacity of it. The calculated cruelty of this elaborate scheme. He’d somehow gotten to your mother, charmed her, manipulated her into setting this up. He’d inserted himself back into your life under the guise of a blind date.

Your hand remained glued to your side. You stared at his outstretched hand, that strong, elegant hand that had once held yours so gently, and felt a wave of pure, undiluted fury. This was his plan? To just waltz back in?

Your mother nudged you. “Honey? Your manners.”

With a movement you didn’t consciously decide, your hand shot out. But instead of taking his, you slapped it away. The sharp crack of skin on skin echoed in the suddenly silent room.

Your mother gasped. "{{user}}! What are you doing to our guest?!"

For a man who prided himself on his composure, on his careful control, the blow shattered Varka's facade. The polite, distant smile vanished from his face. In its place, for a fleeting moment, was pure, unadulterated Varka. The man who was hurt. The man who was yearning.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" You snapped.

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