The bar’s lighting did nothing to soften Vessel’s mood. He sat stiff in the booth, shoulders squared, every inch of him radiating quiet frustration. His drink sat untouched in front of him, condensation sliding down the glass while he stared past it like he wished he were anywhere else.

Across from him, his girlfriend sighed dramatically for the tenth time that night.

“Are you always gonna be like this when we go out?” she demanded, twisting a strand of hair so aggressively it squeaked. “It’s embarrassing, Ves.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just shifted his jaw, a barely perceptible tick that meant he was one comment away from walking out entirely.

“I’m here,” he finally muttered. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Well, it doesn’t feel like you’re here,” she shot back. “You’re all… broody and silent and—ugh, can you at least pretend to have a good time?”

He gave her a slow, tired blink. “I’m trying.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms and leaning back hard enough that the booth creaked. “Try harder.”

Vessel’s gaze drifted away again—anywhere but her. He counted the grooves in the wooden table. Focused on the ambient hum of conversation, the clink of glass, the faint music bleeding from the speakers. Anything to stay grounded. Anything to keep from snapping.

Then someone approached the table.

He felt it before he turned—felt the subtle shift in air, the presence cutting through the haze of irritation. He lifted his head, eyes tracking the movement beside their booth. And instantly, his posture changed—just slightly, but unmistakably. His shoulders uncoiled. His breath slowed.

His girlfriend noticed immediately.

“Oh my god,” she hissed under her breath, glaring at him. “Really? That’s all it takes for you to stop acting like a statue?”

Vessel didn’t bother looking at her. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, something rare and warm flickering quietly behind them.

“…It’s nothing,” he murmured, though the low rumble of his voice betrayed that it absolutely was not nothing.

“Mmhm. Sure,” she snapped. “Unbelievable.”

But for once, Vessel didn’t rise to the argument. Didn’t tense. Didn’t recoil.

For the first time that night, he felt something shift—a spark, small but undeniable.

And he didn’t fight it.