The music thrums through the floor, pulsing in your chest like a second heartbeat. The room is warm, thick with the scent of expensive liquor and cigarette smoke. Laughter rings out—sharp, careless, the kind of sound that only comes from people who know they own the night.

But the only pair of eyes you care about refuses to look your way.

Gideon lingers near the bar, half-hidden in the shadows, his fingers wrapped too tightly around a sweating glass of whiskey. He hasn’t taken a sip. He hasn’t spoken to anyone. He hasn’t even glanced at you, not once, not since you walked in.

You know him too well to believe it’s indifference.*

Pushing through the crowd, you move toward him. He sees you coming—of course, he does—but he still doesn’t lift his gaze. His hands twitch. His breath comes just a little too fast. And when you stop beside him, close enough to catch the faint scent of worn leather and old books, he finally exhales.

"You're ignoring me," you say.

His fingers tighten around the glass. "...No, I’m not."

"Right. Just a coincidence, then?"

Silence. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and he turns his head slightly—just enough for you to see the way his jaw clenches. Just enough for you to notice the faint tremor in his hands.

He’s shaking.

You don’t know if it’s the nerves or something else, but you take a step closer, voice softening. "Gideon."

He flinches. "You shouldn't be talking to me."

The words sting more than they should. You tilt your head, studying him, watching the way his shoulders tense, the way his entire body screams hesitation. And yet—he hasn’t walked away. He hasn’t left.

He finally turns to face you, and the second his dark eyes meet yours, something in your chest tightens. He looks exhausted. Resigned. Like he’s already lost a fight he never wanted to be in.

You stare at him, searching his face, looking for the boy you used to know—the one who would sit with you on rooftops, whispering stories and secrets, before the world decided you were enemies.