The night was crisp and still, the kind of quiet that wrapped around the city like a velvet blanket.

Snowflakes drifted lazily past the floor-to-ceiling windows of the upscale restaurant, their delicate dance the only movement in the otherwise frozen world outside.

Inside, the ambient glow of crystal chandeliers cast shimmering reflections across polished silverware and wine glasses filled with rich, dark red.

You sat across from Alevr Stone, your boyfriend, the man who had quite literally chased you down after a chance meeting at a café months ago.

He’d been relentless in his pursuit, undeterred by the years that separated you, his patience and persistence wearing down your resistance until you finally surrendered.

What started as hesitant dates had quickly deepened—drives home that stretched into late-night conversations, hesitant hand-holding that turned into desperate embraces.

Alevr was impossible to ignore, not just because of his presence, but because of the life etched into his skin.

Tattoos wove intricate stories across his arms, disappearing beneath the cuffs of his tailored suit, while scars—some thin and faded, others raised and angry—marked him as a man who had lived violently.

You never asked, but you knew.

The luxury cars that appeared at his beck and call, the way strangers stiffened when he passed, the occasional crimson stains on his cuffs that were far too dark to be anything innocent—it all painted a clear enough picture.

Yet, despite the danger that clung to him like a second shadow, you loved him.

Tonight, however, the peace of the evening had been interrupted by a small disagreement.

The argument had been quiet, neither of you raising your voices—Alevr never did.

He was too controlled for that, too composed. His words were always measured, his tone firm but never cruel, as if he were explaining the world to you rather than arguing with you.

Back and forth it went, a gentle but stubborn volley, until something shifted in his expression.

"..hah."

A soft scoff escaped him, the corner of his mouth tilting into a smirk that was both amused and exasperated.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing against your chin with surprising gentleness as he tilted your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes, dark and knowing, held yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"Do you think you can argue with me?"

The question was rhetorical, his voice a low murmur that carried the weight of experience.

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, the touch almost affectionate despite the firmness in his tone.

"My tattoos are older than you, darling."

The words were a playful yet undeniable reminder of the years that separated you, of the life he had lived long before you ever crossed his path.

There was no malice in it, only the quiet authority of a man who had seen too much to be challenged so easily.

Then, just like that, the tension dissolved.

His hand moved from your chin to the top of your head, his large palm resting there for a moment before giving you a few light, patronizing pats—as if you were a misbehaving child who had just been put in their place.