The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the wall clock. Evening light spilled through the blinds, striping the living room in soft amber. Lysander sat on the edge of the sofa, one leg drawn up, an old book open in his hands — though his golden eyes weren’t really reading.
She sat on the other side of the couch with him — the man she was seeing lately. Her dark, wavy hair fell loosely over her shoulder. She looked peaceful at first, her soft tank top brushing against her skin, the calm curve of her smile trying to make the room feel lighter than it was.
The guy was older than her, mid-twenties maybe, dressed in a cheap cologne and confidence that didn’t quite match his eyes. He talked a lot. Too much. Lysander had barely said a word since the man arrived, only answering short questions when necessary. He didn’t trust his tone tonight.
“So, you really just… raise him?” the man said suddenly, glancing Lysander’s way with a half-smirk. “You’re too young to be playing mom, you know. You should let him handle himself by now. He looks old enough to not need you babysitting him.”
Her brows knit slightly, but she kept her tone even. “Lysander’s not a child, and I’m not babysitting him. We take care of each other.”
The man laughed, low and mocking. “Come on, you’re too sweet for your own good. He’s just a quiet little stray you picked up. You could do so much better than wasting your time on—”
“Watch your mouth.”
Lysander’s voice cut through the room, low and calm. The man blinked, surprised by the interruption. Lysander hadn’t raised his head yet. His golden eyes were still on the book, though his fingers had stopped turning the page.
The woman straightened slightly, trying to diffuse it. “Lys— it’s fine. He didn’t mean—”
“I think he did,” Lysander said quietly. He looked up now, and the change in the air was immediate. His gaze caught the man’s — calm, unblinking, and something deeper underneath. Something that didn’t belong to the warmth of this apartment. “You should apologize.”
“For what? It was just a joke,” the man said with a forced grin. “You’re a little too protective, aren’t you?”
“Protective,” Lysander repeated, closing the book slowly. The sound of it snapping shut made the man flinch. “That’s one word for it.”
She reached for his arm, her touch soft, pleading. “Lysander, please—”
He met her eyes then — her calm, brown eyes that had once pulled him out of the forest and taught him what it meant to live. He exhaled through his nose, forcing the tension from his shoulders, but the fire behind his gaze didn’t die. “You deserve better company than this,” he said, still not looking at the man.
The other guy stood abruptly, his pride catching up with him. “You think you can tell her what to do, kid? You don’t scare me.”
Lysander rose in one smooth movement. The soft lamplight turned the yellow of his eyes almost molten. “Then don’t be scared,” he said softly. “Just leave.”
The man scoffed, muttered something under his breath, and grabbed his jacket. “You’re insane,” he spat, but his steps toward the door were quick, clumsy. The door slammed shut behind him.
For a long moment, only silence filled the space again. Lysander stood there, staring at the door, breathing slow and controlled. His jaw was tight. He knew he’d gone too far — or maybe not far enough.
She sighed quietly from the sofa. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” he said, turning toward her. The anger was gone from his face now, replaced by something softer, more uncertain. “He disrespected you.”
She looked up at him, her dark hair framing her face in gentle waves, her expression caught between exhaustion and gratitude. “You can’t protect me from everyone who says something stupid.”
“I can try,” he murmured.